Scandalous Behavior

by Stuart Woods

  “I’m hungry,” Cheree said.

  “I’m afraid it’s a forty-minute drive to Litchfield, and our hearing is in half an hour,” the attorney said.

  “Swell.”

  —

  Forty-five minutes later they entered a small courtroom, glared at by judge and prosecutor.

  “I apologize for our tardiness, Your Honor,” the attorney said, “but we were in another hearing.”

  “Let’s get on with it,” the judge said. “Mr. Prosecutor?”

  The hearing was a near duplicate of the one in Katonah, and once again Calhoun found himself in another cell, this time, mercifully, alone. Less than an hour passed before he was released on bail.

  —

  Calhoun watched as his wife greedily consumed a good lunch at a local restaurant. It had always annoyed him that she could eat for an hour with both hands and not gain an ounce. He ate just enough to keep his blood sugar up, afraid that he might throw up on the table if he ate more.

  —

  Back in the car, Calhoun rounded on his attorney. “How long am I going to be subjected to this kind of punishment?” he demanded.

  “I expect for as long as you keep behaving stupidly, Don,” the attorney replied, disrespectfully using his first name.

  “So you think I myself am to blame for all this?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “That is outrageous.”

  “I hope you’re referring to your conduct,” the attorney said. “And while we’re on the subject, did you send your minions to paint the facade of Stone Barrington’s house?”

  Calhoun made sputtering noises.

  “I’ll take that as confirmation. Have you not yet realized, after three hearings in two countries, that you are trying to intimidate someone who will not be intimidated? Have you behaved in this manner in the other cities in which you live?”

  “Certainly not,” Calhoun spat.

  “Well, let’s see: you’ve been run out of Atlanta, New Orleans, Albuquerque, and Britain so far, and maybe Los Angeles, too.”

  “I have not been run out of anywhere!” Calhoun shouted. “I simply enjoy experiencing different cities and countries!”

  “Have you ever Googled yourself?”

  “I don’t know how to do that.”

  “I recommend it for getting a clear picture of your past,” the attorney said. “Your bio on Wikipedia makes you sound like a megalomaniacal lunatic.”

  “Then I’ll sue . . . whoever you said that was.”

  “Then that makes you a hyper-litigious, megalomaniacal lunatic.”

  “You, sir, are fired as my attorney!” Calhoun screamed.

  “And that, sir, is a great relief!” The attorney whipped into a rest stop on the Connecticut–New York border and screeched to a halt. “Get out!”

  “What?”

  “Get out of my car! You are no longer my client, and I will not devote another minute to chauffeuring you from hearing to hearing! And take that woman with you!” he yelled, jerking a thumb at Cheree.

  “Let’s go, Don,” Cheree said, opening her own door.

  The two of them got out, and the attorney drove away, leaving them standing in front of the public restrooms.

  Calhoun was slapping his pockets. “Where is my phone?”

  She handed it to him. “You gave it to me when they locked you up the first time. Now you get on it and get us a car out of here. I have to pee.” She stormed away, leaving him looking for a car service.

  40

  Stone drove Dino and Viv down to the airstrip, and on the way he told them of his conversation with Deputy Chief Inspector Holmes. “Does that make any sense to you?” he asked them.

  “Guilt over what?” Dino asked.

  “Before he could answer that question his pocket watch alarm went off, and he fled the premises.”

  “Well, let me know when you find out,” Dino said. They pulled up to the waiting Strategic Services G450, and the crew took their bags from the Bentley and stowed them on the airplane.

  “How’s the weather for our flight?” Dino asked the pilot.

  “Looks very good,” the man said. “We’ll be in Teterboro by early afternoon.”

  Stone hugged them both, put them aboard the airplane, watched it take off, then drove back to the main house. He went downstairs to his little office and sat down at his desk. Peter came in.

  “How’s it going, Dad?”

  “Pretty well. I just put Dino and Viv on their plane to New York.”

  “Good news—we got script and budget approval for our film. The production company is coming down today with a truckload of lights, cameras, and editing equipment. We should start shooting the first of the week in the rooms that Susan is finishing up now.”

  “Wonderful news.” Peter turned to go, and Stone checked his e-mail and called him back. “You might want to see this. It’s from Arthur Steele, head of the Steele Group of insurance companies.” He turned the monitor so Peter could see it.

  Dear Stone, I saw Peter’s movie, Hell’s Bells, last night, and I thought it was wonderful.

  “That’s nice,” Peter said.

  “There’s more,” Stone replied.

  I saw the mention of some sort of real estate fraud that the character had going, and coincidentally, a report landed on my desk, calling my attention to the fact that among our household insurance accounts, it was noticed that we have more than 800 units, mostly in the L.A. area but scattered widely beyond that, all with the loss-payee of D.B. Calhoun, Inc. We did some checking and we found that it’s a Delaware corporation, the only stockholder of which is one Don Beverly Calhoun. I thought Peter might find this interesting.

  “Holy shit,” Peter said. “That’s bigger than what I had read about. What he’s doing is getting his followers to sign over their homes to him.”

  Stone replied to Arthur’s e-mail.

  Dear Arthur, Peter thanks you for your warm praise; he is also stunned by the size of Dr. Don’s real estate holdings. In fact, I think the FBI would like very much to know about this. It smells of scam, and scam is what Dr. Don does best. May I suggest that you print out the list and send it to the director?

  Come see us in England, if you have the chance. Best, Stone.

  Peter left, and Stone continued going through his e-mails. He was delighted to see one of them, from the head of the Italian police department that investigated organized crime.

  Dear Stone, I am pleased to let you know that, this morning, I had a call from our director of public prosecutions to tell me that Leo Casselli has agreed to a guilty plea of one count of kidnapping and accepted a prison sentence of twenty years. He will likely be out in half that time, but by then he will be passé in the business of crime. I know you will be delighted to hear this, because, since he was not tried, the five million euro reward that you and Marcel duBois posted for information leading to his trial and conviction will not have to be paid. I will give you the pleasure of notifying Mr. duBois of this turn of events. I will notify Baron Klaucke, who had hoped to claim the reward. Warm regards, Guido.

  Casselli was a Mafia don who, in an attempt to extort money from the Arrington Hotels group, had kidnapped a girlfriend of Stone’s. This was the best news Stone had heard for a long time, and he immediately forwarded the e-mail to Marcel and to Arthur Steele, who had agreed to reimburse them for the reward. He got immediate replies from both, and he went to lunch feeling richer, by at least two and a half million euros.

  —

  That night, in bed with Susan, he told her about the e-mails he had received.

  “It sounds as though things are going well for you,” she said, snuggling up, “and I am glad for that.”

  Stone was not quite as glad. He fell asleep with the feeling that things were going too well, and that that state of affairs could not continue. />
  41

  The director of the FBI received a Federal Express package from Arthur Steele, whom he knew slightly, with a list of 834 real estate properties, apparently controlled by Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun. He immediately sent for Douglas Tate, his deputy director in charge of criminal investigations.

  “Doug, this Calhoun creature has raised his ugly head again. I’ve had reports that he and two of his minions have been arraigned on illegal weapons charges in New York and Connecticut, and now I’m hearing from the head of the Steele Insurance Group that Calhoun appears to be foxing his followers out of ownership of their own homes.”

  “I wouldn’t put him above anything,” Tate replied. “I’ll open a new investigation.”

  “You do that—and get ahold of one of the contracts he has signed with these people. I think that’s where we’re most likely to find illegal activity.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tate returned to his office and checked his list of investigators who were not overburdened with work. He summoned two women, June Craven and Donna Madison, and sat them down. “What do you know about Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun?” he asked them.

  Craven spoke up. “Mostly the information that appeared in a West Coast magazine a couple of years ago. The writer was later killed in a suspicious car crash on the freeway. There’s a new movie called Hell’s Bells which is supposed to be about Calhoun, but I haven’t seen it yet.”

  “That sums up what I know, too,” Madison said. “I haven’t seen the movie yet, either.”

  “Okay, put together a team of you and four others, and start by going to the movies. Get them copies of the magazine piece, too, and read our file on Calhoun. We need to put this guy out of business.”

  “Yes, sir,” they both said.

  Walking down the hall together, Madison said, “You know, this one might actually be fun.”

  “Yeah,” Craven replied, “and I’ll bet the movie will bring some complaints out of the woodwork.” Their offices were across the hall from each other, and they split up and went to work.

  —

  Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun was napping on his living room sofa after a heavy lunch, when the phone rang. “Yes?” he asked groggily.

  “Dr. Calhoun,” the doorman said. “A bunch of policemen are on the way up to your apartment. They didn’t wait for me to buzz you.”

  “Thanks.” Calhoun hung up and struggled to his feet. He had just time to splash some water on his face before the doorbell rang.

  He opened it to find four men and two women standing in the hallway. One of the men handed him a document. “Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun, I am Lieutenant Marx of the New York State police, and this is a search warrant for these premises. Stand aside, please.”

  “I’d like to call my attorney,” Calhoun said, unmoving.

  Marx brushed past him. “You do that,” he said. “All right, you two take the bedrooms, you two do the study, and we’ll start in the living room. Look for a safe.”

  Calhoun went to the kitchen and called his attorney. “The police are here with a search warrant,” he said.

  “I’m not your attorney anymore, remember? Find yourself a new one, and don’t expect a referral from me.” He hung up.

  Calhoun called his accountant. “I need a referral to a first-rate criminal lawyer,” he said.

  “Theodore Saxon,” the accountant said, and gave him a phone number.

  Calhoun called it and got Saxon on the phone. “The police are in my apartment with a search warrant,” he said. “I want to hire you with immediate effect.”

  “Who are you?” Saxon asked.

  “I am the leader of a religious group called the Chosen Few.”

  “Oh, yes, I saw the movie.”

  “It’s full of lies.”

  “I’m sure it is. Where are you?”

  Calhoun gave him the address.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, do nothing to obstruct the police, or they’ll arrest you.” He hung up.

  Calhoun sat down at the kitchen table. He could see the police working in the living room, and they were pretty much tearing the place apart. He was glad that he had removed his two handguns to his storage unit in the building’s basement.

  A policeman came into the kitchen. “We’re going to need the combination to your safe,” he said.

  “My attorney will be here shortly,” Calhoun replied. “Ask me when he gets here.”

  The cop went back into the living room, then a female officer entered the kitchen. “You might want to go out for a cup of coffee,” she said, then started opening drawers.

  —

  The doorbell rang, and Calhoun went to answer it. A short, stocky man with black hair and a matching Van Dyke beard stood there. “I am Theodore J. Saxon,” he said, holding out a hand. “Call me Ted.”

  “Come in, Ted.”

  “Where are the police?”

  “Everywhere,” Calhoun replied, waving an arm.

  Saxon marched into the living room. “Hold it!” he shouted. The police all stopped what they were doing and looked at him. “I am Dr. Calhoun’s attorney. I want to see the search warrant.”

  “Oh, I have that,” Calhoun said, taking it from his pocket and handing it to him.

  Saxon scanned the document. “Proceed,” he said to the cops. “It’s in order.” They went back to work.

  Shortly, Lieutenant Marx entered the room. “I’m going to need the combination to your safe and the keys to your basement storage unit.”

  “Give them to him,” Saxon said.

  Calhoun gave him the combination and retrieved the keys to the storage unit from a kitchen drawer.

  When the police walked away, Saxon took Calhoun aside. “What are they going to find in the safe?”

  “Eight hundred and thirty-four deeds to houses and apartments and eight hundred thousand dollars in cash, more or less.”

  “How big is the fucking safe?”

  “About six feet tall. It’s a Fort Knox.”

  “What’s in the storage unit?”

  “Old files and two handguns.”

  “Are you licensed to possess handguns in New York State or New York City?”

  “Ah, not exactly.”

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “Right.”

  The policeman appeared at the door and crooked a finger at Calhoun, who followed him into the study, where they had opened the safe.

  “What is all of that stuff?” the cop asked, pointing.

  “Deeds to real estate,” Calhoun replied. “The green stuff is cash.”

  “How much cash?”

  “Eight hundred thousand dollars, give or take.”

  “Nothing wrong with either of those,” Saxon said. “Please close the safe and forget the combination.”

  To Calhoun’s surprise, the cops did so.

  Shortly, Lieutenant Marx appeared with two Glock 9mm pistols and held them up. “Let me see your license for these.”

  Saxon held up a finger. “Lieutenant, the Supreme Court of the United States has ruled that citizens have the right to possess firearms in their homes, and the storage locker is an extension of Dr. Calhoun’s home. That trumps New York City and State laws to the contrary. It’s not as though he was carrying them on his belt.”

  Marx handed Calhoun the two weapons, went into the living room, and consulted with the other officers. He came back to Calhoun. “Thank you for your cooperation.” He turned toward the living room. “Awright, we’re outta here.” The officers trooped out of the apartment and closed the door behind them.

  Calhoun looked around the living room. “What a mess!”

  “Listen, pal,” Saxon said, “you’ve still got your deeds and cash and your handguns, too. Anything else concerning you?”

  “Not at the moment,” Calhoun said.r />
  Saxon handed him a card. “I’ll send you a bill. You might want to retain me for future legal services. I’m on call twenty-four/seven.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars against fees, and I’ll throw in today.”

  “Done,” Calhoun said, and went looking for his checkbook.

  42

  Stone was having lunch the following day when Dino called.

  “How was your flight?”

  “A piece of cake. I slept most of the way. Hey, listen, I got a call from the New York State cops this morning. They went into Dr. Don’s apartment with a search warrant yesterday and tore it up pretty good. They found the deeds to over eight hundred houses and apartments and eight hundred grand in cash in his safe, plus two handguns in the basement storage unit.”

  “Wonderful,” Stone said.

  “Not so wonderful. A slick lawyer named Theodore J. Saxon showed up, cited the Supreme Court ruling on guns, and they left empty-handed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. One of Arthur Steele’s insurance companies insures all those residences, and Arthur sent the info to the director of the FBI yesterday. You might give the director a call and give him the location of the deeds.”

  “Yeah, I can do that. What’s the deal with the deeds, anyway?”

  “They apparently belong to Calhoun’s followers. It’s got to be some kind of scam.”

  “No doubt. I’ll call the director right now.”

  —

  Agents June Craven and Donna Madison were holding a meeting in a conference room at FBI headquarters.

  “The director got word this morning that Dr. Don has the deeds to all those houses in a safe in his New York apartment.”

  An agent held up a document. “I got one of the owners to fax me his contract,” he said. “What Dr. Don did is pretty smart: he refinanced all those houses and paid off the old mortgages. Since most of these people are in their fifties and sixties, they have a lot of equity, and if any of them leave the Chosen Few or displease Dr. Don, he can foreclose and they forfeit their equity.”