Bel_Air Dead Read online

  “It seems to me you’re doing a pretty good job of dealing with it,” Stone said. “You haven’t folded yet, and you may not have to.”

  “On the other hand . . .” Rick said.

  “Let’s not look at the other hand, until we have to,” Stone said.

  8

  After lunch they got into Rick’s electric cart, and he took them back via a different route, to show them more standing sets.

  They passed down a tree-lined, small-town street, lined with comfortable houses.

  “They’re just facades,” Rick said, “nothing behind them. If we did a shot of someone walking through a front door we then cut to a shot on a soundstage of him entering the living room.”

  They came to a small city square with a park in the middle and a courthouse facing it. The rest of the square was shops, a department store, and a corner drugstore with a lunch counter. Then Rick turned a corner, and they were in New York.

  “Wow,” Dino said, “this gives me chills; it’s like the beats I used to walk. You’ve got street lamps, fireplugs, the works.”

  “The fireplugs operate, too,” Rick said. “We have our own firehouse with two trucks.”

  Soon they were back at the admin building, standing next to Stone’s rented Mercedes. “Thank you for lunch and the tour, Rick,” Stone said.

  Dino thanked him, too.

  “What’s your next move?” Rick asked Stone.

  “I’m doing some due diligence on the investment Arrington is looking at, and I think I’d better meet Terrence Prince,” he said.

  “I’d give you an introduction,” Rick said, “except that he and I are not really on speaking terms, and he might view you as my representative, instead of Arrington’s.”

  “That’s all right,” Stone said, “I won’t need an introduction.”

  They shook hands, and Stone and Dino got into the car.

  “I know Joe Rivera at the LAPD,” Dino said. “I gave him some help on the extradition of a fugitive a couple of years ago. You want me to talk to him about Jennifer Harris?”

  “Good idea,” Stone said. He got out his iPhone and Googled Prince Investments. “Wilshire Boulevard,” Stone said. “Drop me there. Then you can have the car.”

  “How will you get back to Arrington’s house?” Dino asked.

  “I’ll improvise,” Stone replied. He made his way to Wilshire. It was easy to find Prince’s offices, since the name was emblazoned at the top of the tall building. Stone got out, and Dino got behind the wheel. “See you later,” Stone said, and walked into the building.

  A large reception desk blocked access to the elevators, and it was manned by uniformed security officers. Stone noted that they were armed.

  “May I help you?” a beefy officer asked.

  “Yes, I’m here to see Terrence Prince; my name is Stone Barrington.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” the man asked.

  “No, but Mr. Prince will see me. Let me speak to his secretary.”

  The officer dialed a number, then handed the phone to Stone.

  “May I help you?” the woman asked in the voice reserved for handling nut cases.

  “Yes, my name is Stone Barrington; I’m an attorney from New York, and I represent Arrington Calder. I’d like to see Mr. Prince, please.”

  “Does Mr. Prince know you?”

  “Not yet,” Stone replied. “Please tell him what I said.”

  “Please hold.” She clicked off, and a string quartet kept Stone company. She came back on. “Let me speak to the officer,” she said.

  Stone handed the phone to the man, who listened, then hung up. He would either get an appointment or the bum’s rush.

  “Please go to the fortieth floor,” the man said, pointing at an elevator with a guard standing in front of it. “You’ll be met.” He waved to the guard.

  Stone walked to the elevator and looked for a button to push, but there were no buttons. The door closed, and the elevator rose fast enough to nearly buckle his knees. When the door opened a tall, very beautiful blonde in a black suit stood waiting in an open, carpeted area.

  “Mr. Barrington? I’m Carolyn Blaine. Please follow me.”

  “My pleasure,” Stone replied. The view of her from behind was very good. As they crossed the open area, lighted from both ends by floor-to-ceiling windows, Stone reflected that Prince had devoted several hundred square feet of very expensive office space to impressing his visitors.

  They passed a dozen offices with glass fronts and closed doors, then a large conference room where a dozen people sat around an acre of mahogany table. Somebody was exhibiting a large chart on a huge, flat-screen monitor. Finally they came to a pair of tall doors. Ms. Blaine placed her right palm on a glass plate and tapped a code into a keypad; then, with a click, one of the doors opened. Stone was faced with a pale mahogany partition containing a large Picasso from his Blue Period. Fifty to a hundred million, he thought. Blaine led him around the partition into a large room with a large desk, large windows, and large furniture. A large man in a pale yellow linen suit stood and began walking around the desk, talking, apparently to himself.

  “I have to go,” he said. “Get it done, then get back to me.” He removed a clear plastic microphone boom from his ear and tossed it onto the desk; then he held out a hand. “Mr. Barrington,” he said, “I wasn’t expecting you, though I knew, of course, that you were in town.” He was six-three or -four, of athletic build, and with a mop of blond hair that fell across his forehead. His hand was large and hard.

  Stone shook it. “How do you do, Mr. Prince?”

  “I do very well,” Prince replied. “Please come and have a seat,” he said, leading Stone toward a seating area, backed by a wall containing a single, very large Rothko oil, one of those that always reminded Stone of an atomic blast. “Would you like some refreshment?”

  “Perhaps some iced tea,” Stone replied.

  “Of course. Carolyn? I’ll have the same.”

  Stone watched Ms. Blaine walk toward a wet bar in the opposite room.

  “She’s quite something, isn’t she?” Prince asked.

  “Quite,” Stone said.

  “I think one should make a good first impression before making a first impression. What brings you to Los Angeles, Mr. Barrington?”

  “Come now, Mr. Prince,” Stone said. “You know why I’m here or you wouldn’t have seen me without an appointment.”

  Prince nodded. “Quite so. Maybe not even with an appointment,” he said. “How is Mrs. Calder these days?”

  “Healthy,” Stone replied.

  “Is she considering my offer?”

  “Anyone would consider a billion-dollar offer,” Stone replied, “but she has other business interests that she must attend to as well.”

  “Ah, yes,” Prince said, “Champion Farms. How is old Rex?”

  Stone wondered exactly how he knew about the racing farm deal. “Never met the gentleman,” he replied.

  Their ice tea arrived, and Stone had the pleasure of watching Carolyn Blaine bend over to set it on the coffee table.

  Prince raised his glass in a toasting motion. “Now to business,” he said.

  9

  Stone took a sip of his iced tea. It was flavored with tropical fruit and delicious. “I’d like to know why you want to buy Centurion Studios,” he said.

  “I have no interest in Centurion,” Prince replied, “only its land. From my time in Los Angeles I have observed that making a profit from the production of motion pictures is a very iffy way to invest one’s money. One can make money from the movies, of course, but a better way to do it is to let the studios and the independent producers flail about judging scripts and putting together packages of directors and stars, then, when the projects are ready to go, deciding which ones to back. I have done very well that way.”

  “I understand your point of view,” Stone said, “but without organizations like Centurion and the producers they have as partners, your choice of films in which
to invest would be extremely limited.”

  “In that event, I can always invest in something else,” Prince said. “I have no emotional involvement in motion pictures; I rarely even see one. I like investing in hotels, however. I’ve put together a group of some of the finest in cities across the country, and they make money. One makes more money, though, if one develops them, rather than paying a premium for the creations of someone else. The Centurion property will give me the kind of acreage to put a sumptuous hotel in a park, with enough land left over to develop offices and residences at the other end.”

  “How many of the acres would you devote to the hotel?” Stone asked.

  “Perhaps only a dozen or fifteen,” Prince replied. “There isn’t enough acreage for a golf course—you need a couple of hundred for that—but I might get a par-three, nine-hole course in. That’s about all a traveling businessman has time for anyway.”

  Stone looked around the room. “Why don’t you have a model of what you want to build?” he asked.

  Prince shrugged. “I don’t have any trouble visualizing what I want, and since I’m using my own money, or that of my hedge fund, I don’t need to convince people with no imagination to back me.”

  “Surely, you must have architect’s plans.”

  “Nothing I’d care to show you,” Prince replied.

  “You understand that if Mrs. Calder decides not to sell you her shares, you won’t get the property?”

  Prince allowed himself a small smile. “I don’t really think that’s going to be a problem,” he said.

  Stone was stunned. This sort of confidence he had not expected, and there was nowhere for this conversation to go until he knew why Prince was not worried. He took another sip of his iced tea and set the glass on its coaster. “Well, I won’t trouble you further, Mr. Prince,” he said, rising and offering his hand.

  “Thank you for seeing me on no notice.”

  Prince shook Stone’s hand. “Any time at all,” he replied. “Carolyn, would you please escort Mr. Barrington to the elevator?”

  “Oh, I wonder if I might call a taxi,” Stone said. “A friend dropped me here and took my car.”

  “Carolyn, call down for my car and have Mr. Barrington delivered to . . .” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Bel-Air,” Stone said. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “It just sits in the garage until I need it,” Prince said, “and I won’t need it until this evening. If you have any shopping to do or other calls to make, please keep the car until seven, if you like.”

  “Thank you again,” Stone said, then followed the gorgeous Carolyn out of the office and to the elevator. She stopped there.

  “It will be only a moment,” she said. “Do you have friends in L.A., Mr. Barrington?” she asked.

  “A few.”

  “Would you like to have dinner with me while you’re here?”

  “That would be very pleasant,” Stone replied, surprised, then he thought about it for a second. “Tell me,” he said, “will this dinner be tax-deductible for Mr. Prince?”

  She gave a little laugh. “No, this isn’t business, just pleasure, and neither Mr. Prince nor I will be paying.” She handed him a card. “This is my address; eight o’clock tonight?”

  The elevator arrived, and Stone stepped aboard. “Book us into your favorite restaurant,” he said, then the doors closed and Stone left his stomach on a high floor as the car plummeted to the lobby.

  He walked out of the skyscraper to find a bright, silver Bentley Mulsanne awaiting him. A man with a shaved head in a black suit and tie held the door open for him. The car had only recently been introduced and Stone hadn’t seen one yet, so he had a good look around it before he got in.

  The driver slid into the front seat and closed his door, sealing out all sound from Wilshire Boulevard. “Where may I take you, Mr. Barrington?” he asked.

  Stone gave him the address of the Bel-Air house.

  “No shopping?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have time for shopping,” Stone replied. “How do you like the car ?”

  “It’s superb,” the man replied. “Mr. Prince had an Arnage before, but this one is a considerable improvement in every way.”

  Stone electrically adjusted his seat and settled in for the ride. “What else does Mr. Prince drive?” he asked.

  “He has an Aston-Martin DBS for the occasions when he drives himself,” the man replied.

  “He has good taste in cars,” Stone said.

  “In everything,” the man replied.

  As they approached the house, Stone gave the driver the code for the gate, and he was dropped at the front door. He thanked the driver and walked into the house, which seemed deserted, although he knew that Manolo was somewhere nearby. Dino was not back yet, and Stone changed into a swimsuit and took a plunge in the large pool. He swam a few laps, then put on a robe, and settled into a chaise longue, just as his phone buzzed.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Eggers,” he said.

  “Good afternoon,” Stone replied. “You still at the office?”

  “I never get out of here before seven,” Eggers said.

  “Do you have some news for me?”

  “Do I! Rex Champion is close to bankruptcy. He’s been selling off his breeding stock piecemeal to create enough cash flow to keep afloat until he can sell. And every time he sells another Derby winner, the value of the business drops.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Stone said. “Have you formed an opinion as to what the whole kaboodle might be worth?”

  “Thirty-five million, tops,” Eggers said. “That price would allow Rex to pay his debts and walk away free and clear, but I don’t think he would have much left over. If Arrington wants to be generous, she could offer him thirty-eight million. In two or three years, if the economy bounces back and she can buy some good breeding stock, it could be worth half again as much.”

  “So you think it’s a good investment for her?”

  “If I didn’t have to run this law firm, I’d put together some investors and buy it myself,” Eggers said.

  Dino appeared from the direction of the house, shucked off his coat, tossed his tie aside, and sat down. Manolo was right behind him with two tall drinks on a silver tray.

  “Gotta run,” Stone said. “Let me know if anything new comes up.”

  “Arrington is going to have to move pretty quickly to get the place before word gets out and the buzzards start circling,” Eggers said. “Bye.” He hung up.

  Stone picked up his drink from where Manolo had set it, raised his glass to Dino, and took a gulp. “Welcome back,” he said. “Did you learn anything scintillating?”

  Dino took a similar swig and sighed. “Jennifer Harris died from something like an ice pick driven into her brain from the back of the neck, above the hairline,” he said, pointing to his own neck. “Whoever did it was cool enough to wait for the blood to stop leaking before he placed her head on the pillow, then he filled the tiny wound with spirit gum, so it wouldn’t drain further.”

  “What’s spirit gum?” Stone asked.

  “It’s a thick, gummy substance that actors use to create makeup, and undertakers use to fill indentations in a corpse. The ME might have overlooked the wound, since he wasn’t expecting it, if Rivera hadn’t asked him to be thorough.”

  “Well, we’re in a whole new ball game, I think,” Stone said.

  10

  Dino looked at Stone. “You look worried.”

  “I guess I am,” Stone said.

  “Something to do with Mr. Prince?”

  “Yes,” Stone said.

  “What was he like?”

  “Like Donald Trump, except with good taste and real money.”

  “I’m trying to get my mind around that,” Dino said.

  “He’s a very slick article, and I came away impressed, until you told me about Jennifer Harris.”

  Stone’s phone buzzed. “Hello?”

  “It’s Arringt
on. What are you doing out there?”

  “Dino and I had lunch with Rick Barron today, and then I met with Terrence Prince.”

  “And how did that go?”

  “Have you ever met or spoken to Mr. Prince, Arrington?”

  “No, neither.”

  “He seems very cocksure about your selling your shares. Have you indicated to anyone that you intend doing so?”

  “Nobody out there.”

  “How about at home?”

  “My lawyer and accountant.”

  “Do you trust them both implicitly?”

  “I guess. They’re the same man.”

  “Does he have any special qualifications for managing your affairs?”

  “I manage my own affairs; he’s the old-line go-to guy, and he has a good reputation, locally, for giving sound advice.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Howard Sharp.”

  “I think you should fire him at once.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, if what you’ve told me is true, he’s the only person who could have given Terrence Prince the assurance that you’re going to sell your Centurion shares to him, and that is a serious ethical violation. It means you can’t trust the man.”

  “And who should replace him, you?”

  “No, I don’t have all the skills required to advise you in a credible way. However, Woodman & Weld does, and if you become their client, I can see that you get their best attention.”

  “What can they do for me that Howard Sharp can’t?”

  “They can keep your confidences, for a start. They can also tell you how much you should pay for Champion Farms.”

  “Will you ask them to offer an opinion on that?”

  “They already have,” Stone said. “Thirty-five million at the most, thirty-eight, if you’re fond of Rex Champion and want to be generous with him.”

  “And how did they arrive at that number?”

  “Through due diligence,” Stone replied. “Something Mr. Sharp is not acquainted with, apparently. Tell me, did Mr. Sharp recommend that you pay fifty million for the farms?”

  “Yes, he said it was a steal.”

  “Does he also represent Rex Champion?”