Stone Barrington 36 - Scandalous Behavior (9 page)

S
tone was barely awake at dawn, when Susan crept out of bed and went to the Lilac Room to order her breakfast. He had his eggs alone, then showered, shaved, dressed, and closed his suitcases. He and Susan met Sir Charles and Lady Bourne, as arranged, at the car, and Stan came with them to the airport to drive the car home.

Their flight to Le Bourget was short and uneventful, and they said goodbye there.

“Thank you very much for the offer of your house,” Charles said. “It is very kind of you.”

“Thank you for a very fine property and the opportunity to meet so many of your friends last evening,” Stone said.

Their car arrived, and the driver took their luggage. Stone
gave Charles the address of the house, and they said goodbye, knowing that they probably would not meet again.

Then, with the airplane refueled, they took off in clear skies for Horta, in the Azores. Half an hour later they were at flight level 410—forty-one thousand feet—with a true airspeed of 430 knots and a ground speed of 410. Stone pointed to a dotted circle on the center screen of the panel. “This is the range ring,” he said to Susan. “It shows us how far we can fly and still have forty-five minutes of fuel left. As you can see, Horta is well within our range.”

“Wonderful. Is it possible to make calls on my cell from the airplane?”

“No, but we have a satellite phone.”

“May I make some business calls?”

“Of course. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable in the right rear seat. A table is built into the wall—pull up and out. The phone is across the aisle, built into the bulkhead. It’s just as if you were calling from another country.”

“I know all about that,” she said, taking off her seat belt.

Five minutes later he looked back and saw her talking on the phone and making notes on a pad resting on the foldout table.

He flew on, checking the range ring every few minutes, happy that his new airplane had the range to fly this route, rather than going north through Iceland, where there was the constant threat of bad weather outside the summer months.

They refueled at Horta, then continued on to St. John’s and, after refueling, to Teterboro, New Jersey, where the airplane
was based at Jet Aviation. They were met by U.S. Customs and cleared, then their luggage was taken on a cart to the front door of the FBO, where Stone’s factotum, Fred Flicker, awaited them with the car. Forty minutes later they were at home, then they got a good night’s sleep.

The following morning, Stone gave Susan a tour of the house, pointing out his mother’s paintings, then took her down to his office and introduced her to Joan, who had piled his mail and messages on his desk.

“I’d like to unpack, now,” Susan said, “and you seem to have enough to keep you busy here.”

“Phone down to the kitchen, and Helene will bring you some lunch, then meet me in my study for drinks at six,” he said, “and we’ll have dinner there.” She left, and Stone called Dino.

“You’re still alive?” Dino asked.

“You always ask me that, as if you expect a different outcome.”

“One of these days,” Dino said. “I hope your flight was uneventful.”

“We had a little weather at St. John’s and had to fly the instrument approach, but the rest was severe clear.”

“We still on for dinner tomorrow night?”

“We are: seven-thirty at Patroon?”

“See you then.”

Stone hung up and tackled his mail. Additional copies of the closing documents on the house had been sent from the London office, and he instructed Joan: “File these under Windward Hall.” There was a note from Arthur Steele, confirming his wish to pay
the reward Stone had offered for the rescue of his stepdaughter, Hedy. “File this under ‘Thank God,’” he told Joan.

Shortly, Joan announced that Bill Eggers was on line one.

“Hello, Bill.”

“Did you have a good flight?”

“An excellent one. Did you like the house?”

“How soon can you get out?”

“As soon as I’ve accepted your offer.”

Bill made him one.

“Done. You can move in tomorrow.”

“We’ve already moved in,” Bill said. “I can’t get the wife to go back to the city.”

“Just pack up my clothes—there aren’t many—and drop them off here when you get back. I’ll get Herb Fisher to close the sale.”

“Nice doing business with you.”

“Tell me that when you get your first heating bill,” Stone replied. He hung up and went back to work.

—

T
hey met in his study, where Fred had set a table before the fireplace, and he made her a martini and himself a bourbon.

“The house is lovely,” Susan said.

“Tell me what you would do to improve the place.”

“It’s perfect—I can’t think of a thing. Who was your designer?”

“I was, for better or worse. Of course, it didn’t get done overnight. I had years to get it right.”

“That’s always the best way. One of the reasons I’ve succeeded in my work is that I work hard to make it look as though someone has always lived there.”

“Tell me, what did Sir Charles’s renovation of Windward Hall come to?”

“My budget was two million pounds, but he kept adding things, so the final figure will be closer to three million.”

“God, I’m glad I didn’t have to do that.”

“You are a very fortunate buyer, and my guess is that you are, in general, a lucky man.”

“Sometimes I think so, sometimes not.”

“Tell me, who are these people we’re dining with tomorrow evening?”

“Dino Bacchetti and his wife, Vivian. Dino and I were partners when I was on the NYPD. Now he’s the police commissioner, which is the top job there. Viv was a detective who worked for him. She retired from the department to avoid the nepotism problem, and joined Strategic Services, a very large security company, where she has done well and risen in the ranks. She now runs their home office in New York and supervises international.”

“They’re going to think me very dull,” she said.

“Not a bit of it. You’ll be fast friends.”

“I hope so.”

14

W
hen Stone came downstairs to go to work the following morning, there was a strange man sitting in the chair opposite his desk who stood up and offered his hand.

“Hello, Stone,” he said. “Billy Barnett.”

It took Stone a second to flip through the name change and Teddy Fay’s incredible facility with anonymity. “Hello, Billy,” he said. “What a nice surprise to see you.” His mind raced through the possible reasons for “Billy,” as he now was, to leave Los Angeles and come to New York. Stone poured him some coffee and bade him sit down. “What brings you to New York?” Something must be amiss with Peter, Stone’s son, he thought; he was not far wrong.

“I’m worried about Peter and Ben,” Billy said. Ben was Peter’s partner in the film business and he was also Dino’s son.

“What’s wrong?” Stone asked.

“Problems have arisen that are connected to Peter’s new film,
Hell’s Bells
.”

“This is the one about a violent fundamentalist sect operating out of some corner of L.A.?”

“Correct. His script was based on snippets of news stories he’d seen over the past couple of years, and he was intrigued by the idea of such a backward group living in a major American city. He invented the greater part of it, but the problem, it seems, is that what he invented is too close to the truth—or, at least, these people have come to believe it is.”

“Has he received threats?”

“Insinuations, mainly. They’re too smart to make direct threats. In the past, when they’ve brought pressure to bear on people they believe to be a danger to them, they’ve always managed to seem to be freshly scrubbed and all-American when the police showed up at their door, and they’ve given television interviews that reinforce that appearance.”

“What are they called?”

“The Chosen Few,” Billy said. “They’re led by a man named Don Beverly Calhoun, or Dr. Don.”

“That is a vaguely familiar name,” Stone said. “Where have I heard it?”

“Dr. Don was the pastor of a church in Atlanta that grew into the sort of organization that congregated in basketball stadiums, instead of a church. He first got noticed when he opposed former president Will Lee in his first run for the Senate, more than
twenty-five years ago. The whole thing crumbled when a mixture of financial, sexual, and political scandals converged, and Dr. Don experienced the modern media equivalent of being tarred, feathered, and ridden out of town on a rail. He disappeared for a while, then finally reappeared in New Orleans, then Albuquerque, only to be run out of town again, and, finally, in L.A. about eight years ago. According to one article I read, he hung on to his mailing lists from his old church, particularly one containing the names of his most rabid parishioners, a few dozen of whom followed him wherever he went. The author of the magazine piece was killed in a car crash on the freeway that was very suspicious, but the police never made an arrest.”

“I’ve been out of the country for the past three weeks,” Stone said, “and I haven’t had a chance to call Peter since I got home Monday night. When does his film open?”

“This weekend, on twelve hundred screens. Centurion Studios has been spooked by the whole thing, and they’ve cut the number of screens by a thousand and the promotion budget in half, hoping that it will open quietly, then grow slowly on word of mouth.”

“Is Peter going to be in L.A. for the opening?”

“We all flew in last night on the Centurion jet—Peter, Ben, and their girlfriends and my wife.”

“Is there a formal premiere?”

“No, that was going to happen in L.A. but Centurion canceled it, and they haven’t scheduled any New York publicity for Peter, either.”

“Where are they staying?”

“At the Carlyle.”

“Why didn’t they stay here?”

“Peter didn’t really want you to know about all this, and anyway, Centurion is paying, so why not?”

“I guess the room service is better at the Carlyle.”

“I expect so.”

Stone reached for the phone.

“Please, don’t call Peter,” Billy said.

“Why not?”

“Because then he’ll know that I told you about this, and he already thinks I’m an alarmist. He’ll call you, don’t worry.”

“Do you have some plan for dealing with this, Billy?”

“If it were up to me, I’d put a bullet in the head of Dr. Don some dark night, but as it is, I think we’re going to have to wait for developments, then fight back the best way we can. Peter doesn’t even want to think about it, so I’ve pretty much shut up.”

“Do you think these people pose an immediate threat to Peter and Ben?”

“I think they’re capable of anything,” Billy replied, “but I can’t predict what.”

“I think, perhaps, we should get the kids out of the country.”

“I’ve suggested that, but Peter is not in a mood to run from the situation.”

“Maybe what he needs,” Stone said, “is a situation to run to.”

15

P
eter finally called after lunch. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, there, kiddo. I was about to call you. How are things in L.A.?”

“I’m in New York, for a screening—so are Ben and Billy and theirs. The studio put us at the Carlyle, so we didn’t trouble you.”

“I got in from England Monday night.”

“What were you doing in England?”

“I was finding you a country estate location for a movie.”

“Well, that’s interesting, I’m working on something I’d like to shoot in a place like that. Where is it?”

“On the Beaulieu River”—Stone spelled it for him—“in the south of England, near the Solent. Do you know where that is?”

“I’ve got a map right here, hang on.” There was a rustling of paper.

“Right next to Southampton Water.”

“Got it, and I see the Solent and the Isle of Wight. Tell me about it.”

“As long as you’re this far east, why don’t you just go over there and look at it? Take a vacation.”

“Hattie would like to hear that word from me.”

“There’s nothing to stop you working while you’re there. If you’re going to write about England, why not write
in
England?”