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  “Yes, of course.”

  “And it happened to you and Arrington.” It wasn’t a question.

  “We had been living together.”

  “So how did she know whose son she was carrying?”

  “She didn’t,” Stone replied. “I think it was many years later that it became clear to her, when the child was growing up.”

  “No paternity test?”

  “Not until much later, and that was nearly by accident.”

  “And when did she tell you?”

  “After Vance’s death. She felt she owed it to him to maintain the status quo while he was alive, and she did.”

  “So why didn’t you marry immediately after his death?”

  “By this time we had very different lives, on opposite coasts, and they seemed incompatible. Then she decided to take Peter back to Virginia, her home state, and build a house there. I invited them both to come to New York for Christmas, and after that, things developed very quickly. Peter and I got along immediately, and he quickly guessed that I was his father. There’s a photograph of my father in my study, and Peter resembles him closely. When he saw it-that was all he needed. I had promised Arrington I wouldn’t tell him without her approval, and I didn’t. But Peter is a very bright young man.”

  “I saw that in him when we met in Virginia,” Kelli said. She had come down for the housewarming of Arrington’s new house with her boyfriend, James Rutledge, who was photographing the place for Architectural Digest.

  Joan came into the room. “Lunch is served in the kitchen,” she said.

  Stone led Kelli from his office through the exercise room to the kitchen, where his housekeeper, Helene, had laid the table for two, and he seated his guest.

  Stone poured them glasses of Chardonnay, and they dug into a seafood risotto.

  “May we talk about money for a minute?” she asked.

  Stone sighed. “Must we?”

  “I don’t want details, just an overview. Vance Calder was very rich, wasn’t he?”

  “Vance, who was much older than Arrington but looked wonderful, had had a fifty-year career in Hollywood, and he was, financially, very astute. From his first film he waived salary in favor of a percentage of the gross receipts of his films, and he invested in Centurion stock. Sometimes, when the studio was having cash flow problems, he took stock in lieu of his percentage. Over the years, he became the largest single stockholder in Centurion Studios, and he also invested in California real estate, which brought him handsome returns.”

  “I’ve heard that his estate was worth something in the region of two billion dollars?”

  “You said you didn’t want details.”

  “Sorry. It was during those years that Vance acquired the land in Bel-Air where the new hotel is being built?”

  “Yes. First, he bought an old house there and redid it, then, as his neighbors aged or just moved, he acquired adjoining properties.”

  “So Arrington inherited Vance’s estate, and you inherited Arrington’s estate? Thus avoiding inheritance taxes in both cases?”

  “I made it clear to Arrington that I was uninterested in her money,” Stone said. “In fact, I declined to participate in any of her decisions about her bequests. She worked with another attorney to draw up her will, and I was given a sealed copy, which was not opened until after her death. She left the great bulk of her estate to Peter, in trust, and a lesser share to me. Arrington died in a year during which, due to some congressional anomaly, estate taxes were suspended. I have made it a rule not to spend any of her money on myself, and I have willed my estate to Peter in its entirety, except for a few bequests.”

  “That’s abstemious of you.”

  “I have funds of my own that are sufficient to my needs.”

  “And now The Arrington is about to open. Did you name it that?”

  “Arrington had thought of calling it Casa Calder, after Vance, but after her death, the new name was suggested to me, and it seemed to fit. I understand you’re covering the grand opening for Vanity Fair?”

  “Yes, I’ll be there with a team of photographers. It will be well covered.”

  “Centurion is doing a lot of filming, too. It should all be very exciting.”

  “You don’t really sound very excited about it,” Kelli said.

  “I have mixed emotions,” Stone said, “and I expect they will remain mixed.”

  “Stone, do you feel any guilt about your inheritance from Arrington?”

  Stone shrugged. “I didn’t do anything to deserve it.”

  “From what I’ve learned during my research, you did very well by Arrington after Vance’s death: after you became her attorney, you helped her save Centurion from a rapacious property developer. You and your law firm took over her affairs and increased her wealth, and you saved her millions on the purchase of the Virginia land where she built her house. Surely it was natural of her to want to leave you a part of her estate, even if you hadn’t married, and as her husband, there was nothing out of the ordinary about inheriting from her.”

  Stone shrugged again. “That’s all very logical, and I suppose it should make me feel better about it, but…”

  “I’m sorry,” Kelli said, “I won’t go any further with that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “There is a rumor I’d like you to address, though.”

  “What sort of rumor?”

  “That you were married previously to a woman who has now been hospitalized for some years, but somehow, the marriage records went away.”

  “Funny, I hadn’t heard that,” Stone replied. He knew it, but he hadn’t heard it.

  “So you deny that?”

  “Unless you have something more than a rumor for evidence, why should I bother?”

  “One other thing,” Kelli said, “and then I’ll leave you alone.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There appears to be some discrepancy about your and Arrington’s son’s date of birth.”

  Stone frowned. He hadn’t expected this, and he needed to make this go away immediately. “Peter has a birth certificate, like everybody else, and that’s a public record.”

  “I know, I’ve seen it, and you are listed as the father. How did Vance Calder feel about that?”

  “I wasn’t privy to conversations between Arrington and Vance, so I’ve no idea what he felt.”

  “How does Peter feel about Vance?”

  “He seems to have nothing but fond memories of him.”

  “Do you mind if I talk to Peter?”

  “I certainly do, and if you pursue that line of questioning, my cooperation will end. Is that perfectly clear?”

  “Perfectly,” she said. She glanced at her watch. “Well, that’s all I have at this time. May I call you if I think of anything further?”

  “This has all been painful, and I would prefer not to discuss any of it any further. I think you have enough for your book.”

  “I understand,” she said. “Thank you for your cooperation.” She excused herself and left.

  Stone was left staring into his wineglass.

  4

  Three months before Stone’s conversation with Kelli Keane, three men sat in a dentist’s reception room in Leipzig, Germany. There were no other patients waiting, and they did not seem to know each other.

  From behind the two-way glass separating the reception room from the rest of the suite of offices, another man observed them. The three looked fit, but otherwise unremarkable; all appeared to be Anglo-Saxon, between twenty-five and thirty-five, and neatly dressed in casual clothing. Two of them leafed through magazines; the other stared at the mirrored glass, as if he could see through it, which the viewer found a little unsettling.

  The observer pressed a button on the receptionist’s desk and the outside door to the reception room locked with a distinct click. The two reading magazines both looked at the door; the one staring into the mirror did not. The observer found that interesting. He leaned toward the microphone
on the desk and spoke.

  “The one farthest from the door, open the drawer in the magazine table next to you.”

  They all became alert. The man opened the drawer.

  “There are three pairs of cotton gloves in the drawer,” the observer continued. “Each of you put on a pair, and wipe clean any surface or magazine you may have touched.”

  They did so. When they had finished, the observer continued. “You, on the right, tell us your first name and something about yourself.”

  The starer wiped the brass pull on the drawer clean and looked back at the mirrored glass. “I am Hans,” he said, in unaccented American English. “I work as a test driver at the Porsche factory in Leipzig, where the Cayenne and Panamera models are assembled. I was born in Monterey, California, to a German father and an American mother. They moved to Berlin when I was sixteen, so that my father could take over an automobile repair shop owned by my grandfather.”

  “Good,” the observer said. “Now, you on the left.”

  “My name is Mike,” the man said. “I was born in New York City, but my parents soon moved to California, where my father opened a restaurant in the San Fernando Valley, which he still operates. I currently work as a bartender at the Beverly Hills Hotel, in Los Angeles.”

  “Good. Now you, the third.”

  “My name is Richard, called Rick. I was born and raised in Santa Monica, California. I attended a technical college in Burbank and studied computer science. I work for a large security company in their Los Angeles office, designing and building prototypes for large-scale alarm systems.”

  “Good,” the observer said. “You may all call me Algernon. You all know that a short time ago an American SEAL team located our beloved Osama bin Laden in Pakistan and murdered him there. Our purpose-yours and mine-will be to wreak a vengeance on the United States for that despicable act from which that country may never recover.”

  There were excited murmurs from the three men, and they exchanged happy glances.

  “Take a good look at each other, because you will not meet again for some time, but when you do, you must recognize each other on sight. Hans, we know why you are in Leipzig. Rick, how did you travel here?”

  “I took a flight from Los Angeles to London, then spent a week touring southwest England in a rental car. After that I took a flight from Heathrow to Paris and from there to Leipzig. I am picking up another rental car tomorrow, with which I will tour Eastern Europe for another ten days, before returning to Los Angeles from Paris.”

  “Mike?”

  “I flew from Los Angeles to Rome and spent five days there, before traveling by train to Leipzig on a passport supplied to me. Tonight, I will return to Rome and spend another three days there before returning to Los Angeles.”

  “You all belong to mosques, under Muslim names. Has any of you visited a mosque in Europe during the past two years?”

  Hans raised his hand. “I was not told I couldn’t.”

  “Does anyone at your mosque know your German name?”

  “No. I was told not to give it to anyone.”

  “Good. Now, here are your instructions: Hans, you are a certified Porsche mechanic, are you not?”

  “Yes,” Hans replied.

  “You are to resign from your job at the factory, saying that you wish to return to the United States. You will ask for a letter of recommendation to a Porsche dealer in Los Angeles and apply for a job there by e-mail. There is an envelope in the drawer with an e-mail address to the service manager at the dealership. You will apply by e-mail, sending as attachments your resume and your letter of recommendation. The dealership will arrange your work permit. Later, you will leave this job for another, which you will be told about at a later date.”

  Hans opened the drawer, found the envelope, and put it into his jacket pocket.

  “Mike,” Algernon said, “you subscribe to a restaurant services magazine. When you return you will see an advertisement for kitchen and bar staff at a new hotel called The Arrington. You will apply for a bartender’s job there as soon as you return.”

  Mike nodded.

  “Rick,” Algernon said, “you are currently working on alarm systems for The Arrington. Your employer is furnishing security personnel to The Arrington, and when you return, you will apply to your boss for a position as a security systems operator and repairman in The Arrington’s security monitoring center, which is operated by your employer.”

  Rick said, “Yes, sir.”

  “You all have excellent backgrounds for the jobs to which you will apply, and you must do everything possible to see that you are hired. When you return to the United States, you must obtain throwaway cell phones, set up e-mails in your code names, then send your e-mail addresses to the following website.” Algernon gave them the name, then repeated it. “When you have been hired at the hotel, you will send an e-mail to that address saying, ‘All is well. I am fine,’ signing it with your code name. I will contact you at those e-mail addresses and give you further instructions at a later date. When you go to work at the hotel, you will not give any sign that you recognize each other. Rick, your code name will be Wynken. Hans, your code name will be Blynken. Mike, your code name will be Nod. Everybody understand?”

  The three men nodded.

  “You may receive further instructions from me directly or by phone. I sign my e-mails with the name ‘Algernon.’”

  The three men nodded.

  “Now leave, one at a time; five minutes apart. Don’t leave any fingerprints on the doorknob. Throw the gloves into a public trash bin at least two blocks away from here. Hans, you first, then Rick, then Mike.”

  Algernon sat and waited until all three men had left, then he took out his cell phone and sent an e-mail message to someone who was waiting for it. Two minutes later, he received a reply: “All is well. I am fine.”

  Algernon left the office, locking the door behind him. A few blocks away he discarded the office key and the gloves he had been wearing.

  5

  Stone and Dino met for dinner at Patroon, a restaurant on East Forty-sixth Street. It was the first time they had dined there, and they were still looking for a replacement for Elaine’s. Stone and Dino had been detectives and partners at the 19th Precinct many years before; Dino was now running the detective squad there.

  They settled into a corner table in the handsome, paneled dining room, hung with photographs from the collection of the owner, Ken Aretsky.

  “What do you think?” Dino asked.

  Stone seemed distracted. “Huh?”

  “Of the restaurant.”

  “Oh. I like the look and feel of it.” He opened a menu. “More expensive than Elaine’s, though.”

  A waiter materialized before them and set down two drinks. “Knob Creek for you, Mr. Barrington. Johnnie Walker Black for you, Lieutenant Bacchetti.”

  Stone thanked the man. “That’s a good start,” he said, sipping the drink.

  “How did he know?” Dino asked.

  “Beats me. Did you get famous all of a sudden?”

  A man appeared at the table and introduced himself as the owner.

  “How do you do, Ken?” Stone asked. “Please pull up a chair.”

  Aretsky did so.

  “Your waiter is gifted with second sight,” Stone said, raising his drink.

  “Not really,” Aretsky replied. “Elaine told me to expect you two, though I didn’t think it would take so long.” The waiter brought him a drink.

  “When did this happen?”

  “About a month before she died,” Aretsky replied. “I think she knew she didn’t have long. Elaine said that the restaurant might not make it without her, and that you two were her most loyal customers. She said you’d turn up here eventually, and she told me what you drink.”

  Dino raised his glass. “Elaine,” he said.

  Stone and Ken raised their glasses and drank. They talked for a few minutes about the photographs on the walls, then Ken excused himself to greet anoth
er customer.

  “She’s still taking care of us,” Stone said.

  “How about that?” Dino took another sip of his scotch and looked searchingly at Stone. “Something’s going on with you, pal. You depressed about something?”

  “Nothing in particular,” Stone replied. “I had lunch with Kelli Keane today.”

  “The redhead from the Post?”

  “Not anymore. She quit to write a biography of Arrington. She had a lot of questions.”

  Dino looked surprised. “And you answered them?”

  “Most of them. She seems to be doing a conscientious job of research, and I’d rather she had accurate information to work from instead of rumors.”

  “And you trust her?”

  “It’s not necessary to trust her. I don’t think she’ll lie outright, and if she does, I have a recording of the conversation.” He patted his breast pocket.

  “Smart move. Is she going to let you read it before publication?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “If a client of yours was talking to a former Post reporter for publication, what advice would you give him?”

  “I’d tell him to record the conversation.”

  “Yeah, and you’d tell him to demand to see the manuscript before publication.”

  “I don’t want to read it when it’s published, and I don’t want to read it now. There won’t be anything in it that I don’t already know.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Dino said. “So this lunch depressed you?”

  “It forced me to relive things.”

  “Speaking of ‘things,’ how are they with you and Marla Rocker?”

  “Okay, I guess. She’s going to direct Peter’s play, and she’s casting now. She won’t be able to make it to the hotel opening.” Stone and Arrington’s son was a student at the Yale School of Drama, and he had written the play the year before. Dino’s son, Ben, also a student there, had produced it, and now it was being readied for Broadway.

  “You going to take somebody else?” Dino asked.

  “Who? I’m not seeing anybody else.”

  “I’ve never known that condition to last very long,” Dino said.