Swimming to Catalina

large black helicopter was rifting off the roof of the Safe Harbor Bank building. He stepped back into the van. “Put me on the command channel,” he ordered the operator. The man turned a knob and nodded.
    “This is Lieutenant Richard Grant,” Rick said. “Patch me through to aviation.”
    A moment later a woman’s voice came on. “LAPD aviation.”
    “This is Lieutenant Richard Grant. Let me speak to your watch commandernow. ”
    “Yes sir, putting you through to the watch commander.”
    “Aviation watch commander,” a man’s voice said.
    “This is Lieutenant Richard Grant; I’m speaking for the chief of detectives. A large black helicopter has just taken off from the Safe Harbor Bank building in downtown L.A., heading in a south-southwesterly direction. I want you to put everything you’ve got in the air and intercept that helicopter. Do not, repeat donot fire on it; one of our people is aboard. I want it forced down, and if it’s heading toward Mexico, underno circumstances is it to be allowed to cross the border.”
    “Roger, I read you, Lieutenant,” the watch commander said.
    “How many aircraft can you muster on this?”
    “I’ve got two choppers on the pad, fueled and ready to go, and four others in the air in various places. I’ve also got two fixed-wing aircraft flying traffic.”
    “Put them all on it. I want a maximum effort.”
    “Roger, sir.”

    “Remember, don’t let them cross the border; alert air traffic control not to issue any clearances to a chopper headed south, you read me?”
    “Loud and clear, sir; we’re on it.”
    “Hey, while you’re at it, have me picked up downtown. Where can your man land?”
    “How many people, sir?”
    “As many as it will hold.”
    “I’ve got one in the air near MacArthur Park right now; it can take two besides the pilots.”
    “We’re on the way.” Rick turned to a cop. “Crank this thing up and get me to MacArthur Park! And keep monitoring Barrington’s wire!”
    Somebody slammed the door, and the van made a U-turn. Somebody put a flashing light on top and turned on a siren.
    “I knew he shouldn’t have gone up there alone,” Dino said.

63
    Stone sat on one of two leather-upholstered bench seats, between Tommy and Zip, while Ippolito and Sturmack occupied the opposite bench. It was remarkable how quiet it was inside the machine, he thought. The rotors were a distant thump.
    “Where to, Mr. Ippolito?” the pilot asked over his shoulder.
    “Ensenada,” Ippolito answered. “Maximum speed.”
    “I’ll have to call ATC for a clearance,” the pilot said.
    “Fuck the clearance; you get down low over the water and you get us to Ensenada fast. What’s our ETA?”
    “That will take just a minute, sir.”
    Sturmack spoke up. “Oney, what are you doing? Why do you want to go to Ensenada?”
    “Because Tijuana is too obvious.” He picked up a cell phone fixed to a bulkhead and punched in a number. “This is Mr. Ippolito,” he said. “I want the G-5 offthe ground immediately; file for Ensenada, full fuel, you got that?”
    There was some sort of reply from the other end.
    “Thirty minutes is too long, make it fifteen. I’ll meet the airplane there.” He hung up.
    “Oney,” Sturmack said, “I don’t get it; why are we headed for Mexico?”
    “Come on, David, you’re not that stupid. Do you think Barrington is dumb enough just to walk into my office with no backup? He didn’t kill Billy O’Hara, he’s not the type. O’Hara has spilled everything, and I’d give you odds my office is swarming with cops right this minute.”
    Stone smiled. “Good guess,” he said.
    “What about my wife?” Sturmack asked. “I can’t just leave her.”
    Ippolito handed him the phone. “Call her and tell her to get the next plane to Panama; we’ll only be in Ensenada long enough to change aircraft.”
    Sturmack began dialing.
    Stone looked out the window. They were crossing the coast now, at about a thousand feet, he reckoned.
    “Charlie,” Ippolito yelled, “get this thing down on the water, do you hear me? The cops have choppers too, you know.”
    The helicopter began a rapid descent. Stone watched the masts at Marina Del Rey flash by.
    Sturmack handed the phone back to Ippolito. “I can’t believe we’re just running,” he said. “I’m seventy years old; I don’t want to live in Panama.”
    “We’ll be headed south from there,” Ippolito said. “You can pick your country; I’ll send you wherever you