Scandalous Behavior Read online

  “Surely the FBI is looking at this guy.”

  “Almost certainly, but they’ve never charged him with anything.”

  “There must have been an investigation of the magazine writer’s death.”

  “By the LAPD, but no charges were ever brought for lack of evidence.”

  —

  The Friday-night screening was a huge success. The invited audience gave it a standing ovation, and Peter and Ben took a bow. Stone hustled them to their cars as quickly as he could. He hugged Peter and Ben. “Have a good flight and call me after you’re at the house. The staff will meet you at the airplane and take good care of you. You’ll go through customs and immigration at the property.”

  The boys and their girlfriends and the Barnetts were driven away.

  —

  Stone’s and Dino’s cars were waiting. “Dino,” Stone said, “you know the director of the FBI, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “Why don’t you give him a call and see if you can find out what, if anything, they have on Dr. Don and his Chosen Few?”

  “I’ll call him at home this weekend,” Dino said. “I don’t want to make an official inquiry.”

  “Okay. You sure you don’t want to go to England next weekend?”

  “I’d love to, I really would, but I’m going to have the press on my ass if I keep trying to keep up with you.”

  “I’m glad Viv can go.”

  “So am I—she can use some time off.”

  —

  Stone and Susan continued home. Upstairs, he turned on CNN, having missed the regular evening news.

  “A new film opened at twelve hundred theaters across the nation tonight called Hell’s Bells. Audiences at two of them got more than they had bargained for. There were explosions at theaters in Santa Monica, California, and Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, shortly after the film began. Police in both cities said there were no serious casualties, that the explosions had been caused by the stun grenades police use to storm crime scenes. One Idaho woman was taken to a hospital for cuts and bruises and is being kept overnight for observation. Others at both theaters were treated on-site by EMTs and released.”

  “Oh, God,” Stone said, “it’s started.” He switched on his iPhone, went to a flight-tracking app, and entered the tail number of the Strategic Services G650. The airplane was halfway to Newfoundland. “I’m glad they’re on their way.”

  The phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Peter? I just checked on your flight—you’re halfway to Newfoundland.”

  “Right, I see that on the flight progress screen. This is some airplane.”

  “It certainly is.”

  “We also get CNN. Have you heard what happened at two of our theaters?”

  “I just saw it. That’s terrible news.”

  “I’m glad no one was seriously hurt.”

  “So am I.”

  “Ben thinks the publicity will help us, rather than hurt us.”

  “I suppose it could. I’m glad you’re not here to get hounded by the media. You’d be wise to keep your destination quiet and let Centurion’s PR people handle the press response.”

  “You don’t think I should issue a statement?”

  “No, I don’t. Just enjoy yourself.”

  “I’m sure we will. I liked Susan. I hope you’ll see a lot more of her.”

  “I think you can count on that.”

  “Good night, then.”

  “Get some sleep and arrive rested.” Stone hung up.

  18

  Stone woke to find an outstanding review of Hell’s Bells in the New York Times. He checked his watch: it was midday in England, and Peter hadn’t called yet. He was relieved when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Dad. We made it in good order. Is this too early to call?”

  “It’s perfect. Want to hear something nice?”

  “Sure.”

  Stone read him a few paragraphs of the review. “I’ll fax you the whole thing when I get downstairs.”

  “Thanks, it’s too early to hear from L.A., and it’s Saturday. I’ll check with them later. Dad, this house is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and it’s in perfect condition.”

  “That’s because it’s just gone through a year-long renovation, top to bottom, all Susan’s work.”

  “She’s an incredible designer.”

  “Does it work for your idea for a film?”

  “It certainly does.”

  “Is it a period piece?”

  “Between the world wars. The phones and the TVs are all we’d have to change.”

  “The TVs are concealed at the press of a button, but you’re right about the phones.”

  “Do you think Susan would like to be our production designer?”

  “I’ll ask her. By the way, the previous owner, Sir Charles Bourne, is still living on the place, in the largest of the cottages. He’s in Paris on his honeymoon, but he should be back soon. I’ve let him know that you’re there, so when you see him introduce yourselves. Also, there are horses, if you feel like riding. Just tell the butler, Geoffrey, and he’ll speak to the stable hands.”

  “I think we’re going to be very happy here.”

  “Well, get to it, then, and give me a call if you have any questions, or see Major Bugg, who runs the place from his basement office. I’ve got two cars there, too. Use them.” Stone hung up and Susan brought breakfast from the dumbwaiter.

  “I wish I’d thought of a dumbwaiter for Windward Hall,” she said. “It’s such a good idea.”

  “Make a note of that for our next renovation, in about forty years. By the way, Peter loves the house. He told me to tell you, and to ask you if you’d consider being the production designer for the film he wants to shoot there.”

  Susan laughed. “Tell him I’ll consider it.”

  He finished breakfast and went back to the Times. There was a good-sized piece on the entertainment page about the explosions in Santa Monica and Coeur d’Alene, and Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun was interviewed. “I don’t know why anyone would think we would be involved in such a thing,” he said, “even if the movie is a scurrilous piece of trash, full of lies and distortions.”

  Stone went downstairs and faxed Peter the Times review. The phone rang.

  “Hi, it’s Eggers. It’s Saturday, would you and Susan like to drive up to Connecticut with me? I’ve got all the closing documents, so we can take care of that.”

  “Why don’t we meet you there? We can have lunch at the Mayflower Inn.”

  “Fine, I’ll book us in. Shall we meet there at one o’clock?”

  “Sounds good.” He hung up and went to find Susan. She was sitting at her dressing table working on her laptop.

  “I’m looking at the beta version of my design program,” she said.

  “Would you like to try it out today on a charming New England house?”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  “We’ll leave here at eleven then, and bring an overnight bag, in case we decide to stay the night.”

  His phone rang. “Stone Barrington.”

  “Mr. Barrington, this is Dick Myers of the Associated Press. May I speak to your son, Peter?”

  “I’m sorry, but Peter is on vacation, and he won’t be available for interviews until he returns. Where are you calling from?”

  “Chicago. May I know where he is? I just need to check a couple of facts, before we run our piece.”

  Stone looked at the caller ID; it was from an L.A. number, and he jotted it down. “I’m afraid that’s classified. He’s at a very secluded resort.”

  “Out West, is he?”

  “I didn’t say that. Out of the country would be more accurate. Goodbye.”


  “Mr. Barrington, it really is very important—to him as well as to me—to get in touch with him. I promise I won’t invade his privacy.”

  “You want to invade his privacy to tell him you won’t invade his privacy?”

  “It’s just fact-checking, really.”

  “Try him at his office in a couple of months.” The man was still talking when he hung up. “Yeah, sure, you’re from the AP,” he said aloud.

  —

  At eleven, Stone put their bags into the Blaise, the French sports car that his friend Marcel duBois manufactured near Paris.

  “I’ve read about these,” Susan said, “and I’ve seen a couple in London, but I’ve never ridden in one.”

  “Then fasten your seat belt,” Stone said before he pulled out of the garage and headed for the West Side Highway and the Sawmill River Parkway beyond. The sun was out and the trees were just starting to bud. They listened to classical music on the satellite radio and chatted.

  Then, for the second or third time, Stone noticed a black SUV a couple of cars back that kept pulling into the left lane, as if to get a look at him.

  “Something wrong?” Susan asked. “You keep checking your rearview mirror.”

  “Not a thing,” Stone said, and picked up the pace. The SUV stuck with him.

  —

  They arrived at the Mayflower Inn and went in for lunch. “Excuse me a moment,” he said to Susan. He went to the front desk.

  “Hello, Mr. Barrington,” the clerk said.

  “Good afternoon. My son, Peter, isn’t staying here, but I’d like to know if anyone inquires for him.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll be in the restaurant. If someone asks for him, don’t tell the person he isn’t registered, but please send someone to get me.”

  “As you wish.”

  Stone rejoined Susan, and they went into the dining room, where Bill and Margo Eggers were waiting for them. Bill’s wives kept getting younger, he thought. Introductions were made and lunch ordered.

  They were between courses when a young man came to the table. “Excuse me, Mr. Barrington,” he said, “but there’s a man at the front desk asking for Peter Barrington.”

  “Thank you,” Stone said. He excused himself and left the dining room. A beefy man of about forty was waiting at the desk. “Good afternoon. My name is Barrington. Come with me,” Stone said, leading the way, “and we’ll find some privacy.” He led the man into the little library off the main lobby. “Now,” he said, “who are you?”

  “Uh . . .” the man began, then stopped. “Never you mind who I am.”

  “Let’s see some ID.”

  “I don’t have to show you nothing.”

  Stone took the man’s wrist, spun him around, shoved it behind his back between the shoulder blades, and bent him over the back of a sofa.

  “Let me go, you son of a bitch!”

  Stone found a wallet in his hip pocket and flipped it over.

  “Ah, Mr. William Givers of Los Angeles,” he said. “I thought you might be from the Associated Press. Now tell me, what do you want from Peter Barrington?”

  “I don’t want anything from him.”

  Stone pushed the hand up farther and got a groan of pain from him. He continued to flip through the wallet with his free hand until he found a card. “What a surprise,” he said. “You’re the director of public relations, New York, for the Chosen Few, and you told me only this morning that you were from the AP.”

  “You’re going to be sorry you did this,” the man said.

  Stone reached around the man, feeling his waist, and found a handgun in a holster. He extracted it. “Is this a common tool for a director of public relations?” he asked.

  “None of your fucking business.”

  “Funny, looking through your wallet, I didn’t find a Connecticut carry permit. If you have one, show it to me.” He let go of the man’s arm and stepped back, while popping out the magazine and clearing the breech.

  The man backed away from him. “Stay away from me.”

  “You’ve got it all backwards,” Stone said. “You stay away from me. As it happens, I have both a Connecticut and a New York carry permit, so maybe I should keep the gun for you.” He picked up the magazine and thumbed the cartridges until it was empty, then slapped it back into the pistol.

  The man turned and ran from the library. Stone picked up the cartridges and dropped them into his pocket, then he walked quickly through the lobby, slipping the gun also into his pocket, and out onto the front porch, just in time to see a black SUV departing. It had a New York plate, and he jotted down the number, then he went back into the dining room. “Sorry about that,” he said, sitting down to his main course.

  “Anything wrong?” Eggers asked.

  “Not anymore,” Stone replied.

  19

  They drove back to Stone’s house in two cars and went inside. Susan had a look around with Margo and took a lot of pictures with her iPhone, then they sat down at the kitchen table, and Susan got her laptop set up. They began looking at rooms, changing the colors and fabrics with her computer program. Stone went upstairs and packed what few clothes he had there into a suitcase, then took it down to the car.

  As he was opening the trunk the black SUV drove past. Stone got out his phone, looked up the number of his friend Dan Brady, who was commandant of the Connecticut State Police.

  “Hey, Stone, what’s up?”

  Stone told him about Peter’s new movie.

  “Yeah, I saw about the explosions on the news.”

  “They have an operative in New York who called me this morning, pretending to be from the AP, looking for Peter, then followed me to Washington this morning. I took a gun away from him, but he’s still following me. I’m at my house, and he just drove by in a black Grand Cherokee with a New York plate.” He gave Dan the number.

  “Do you still have the gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stay where you are. I’ll call the Litchfield troop and get a car over there, then get back to you.”

  “Thanks, Dan, you have the number and the street address.”

  “Sure.”

  They hung up and Stone went back into the house. As he was going inside, a car pulled up and a woman got out, carrying a briefcase. “Can you tell me where to find Bill Eggers?” she asked.

  “Right this way.”

  Eggers greeted her, took her into the dining room, and told her to get set up. “Are you ready to close, Stone?”

  “You betcha.” Stone went into the dining room and he and Eggers signed the many documents necessary to close a real estate sale, then Eggers handed him a cashier’s check for two million dollars.

  “Thank you very much,” Stone said. “I wish you a happy time in the house.”

  They were in the kitchen when the doorbell rang, and Stone went to answer it. Two uniformed state troopers stood on the porch with William Givers, handcuffed, between them.

  “I’m Sergeant Miller,” one of them said. “Mr. Barrington?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I understand that you have a firearm that you took from this gentleman?”

  “Correct, except for the gentleman part.” Stone took the weapon and its cartridges from his pocket and handed them to Miller. “It’s been cleared.”

  Miller cleared it again himself, then turned to Givers. “William Givers, you are under arrest for the unlawful possession of a firearm in the State of Connecticut. You will come with us. Thank you, Mr. Barrington. We’ll be in touch to get a written statement.”

  “I’ll fax you one on Monday,” Stone said. He went back into the house and took Eggers on a tour of the house’s systems, then called the security company and gave them the names of the new owners.

  Stone and Eggers watched a football game on TV, while Susan
and Margo continued working on the computer. As it grew late, Stone booked a room at the Mayflower and a dinner table at the West Street Grill, in Litchfield. The ladies joined them for a drink, then Stone and Susan went to change.

  —

  They were having dinner in Litchfield when Stone’s cell phone vibrated.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s Dan. I thought you’d like to know that Givers was bailed out by a local attorney a few minutes ago.”

  “No arraignment?”

  “The attorney brought a judge with him. Givers will have to make a court appearance on Tuesday. Where are you?”

  “In Litchfield.”

  “So is Givers, so watch yourself.”

  “Did you give him his gun back?”

  “No, and we kept the shotgun we found in his car, too, and the two boxes of ammo for the handgun and the shotgun, or riot gun, I should say; it has a short barrel.”

  “So much for public relations,” Stone said.

  Brady laughed. “Yeah.”

  “I’ll fax you an affidavit on Monday morning. Will I need to make an appearance?”

  “Not unless he’s tried. I expect he’ll plead to a lesser charge, pay a fine, and walk.”

  “Well, I’m glad to have caused him some trouble, anyway.”

  “Do you think you’ve heard the last of these people?”

  “I doubt it, but I’m leaving the country at the end of next week, and they won’t know where I am.”

  “Good idea. Let ’em cool off.”

  “Thanks, Dan, and take care of yourself.”

  “Same to you. Thanks for helping us get him off the street, at least for a while.”

  Stone hung up and went back to his dinner.

  20

  They spent a lazy Sunday morning in bed, watching the political shows and reading the Times. “How’d you and Margo do with your computer program?”

  “Very well, with only a couple of glitches, and I’ve already e-mailed that news to the software team. Margo and I are going to meet at your house in a couple of days and nail down the materials she’ll need, and my team will ship them to her late next week. They’ll get to work on the draperies, too, and she’ll have them in about three weeks. A firm in New York I’ve worked with before will do the painting and installations, and we’ll find an upholsterer to redo some of the furniture.”