Bel_Air Dead

by Stuart Woods

  “Why are you giving me that advice?” Stone asked.

  Dino shrugged. “Suffice it to say that it’s my best advice, and I don’t think you would regret taking it.” Stone started to respond, but Dino held up a hand. “That’s all I have to say on the subject.”

  “All right, I won’t press you. I’ll call Eggers when New York opens for business and get it done.”

  Dino smiled happily. “This is going to be a good day,” he said. “I can feel it coming.”

  “I wish I could share your optimism,” Stone said.

  “What’s the song say? ‘Don’t worry, be happy!’ ”

  “That’s mindless optimism,” Stone said.

  “No, it’s not. I told you, I have a feeling.”

  “You get these feelings all the time, do you?”

  “No, just once in a while, but they’re always right.”

  “How about the Centurion business? You have a feeling about that?”

  “Nope, just about the day in general. I think we should have a celebratory dinner.”

  “Even if you don’t know what we’ll be celebrating?”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t know anything,” Dino said. “I just don’t know how the Centurion thing is going to play out.”

  “You’re making me crazy,” Stone said. “I’ve never seen you like this. Did you take some weird kind of sleeping pill that hasn’t worn off yet?”

  “Nope, I never need sleeping pills. I sleep like a Labrador retriever.”

  “Why do you say that? You don’t have a Labrador retriever.”

  “No, but I met one, once, and I was impressed with the way he slept.”

  Stone’s cell buzzed, and he picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Good morning, it’s Eggers. This is your big day, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what Dino says, but I’m not too sure. Things haven’t gone well here the past couple of days.”

  “So why is Dino so up?”

  “Who knows? He says he has a feeling.”

  “He’s Italian; I wouldn’t discount it.”

  “Why did you call, Bill?”

  “Just to wish you luck at your stockholders’ meeting today.”

  “Well, I was going to call you at nine, New York time, so I’m glad you called.”

  “What can I do for you, Stone?”

  “I have a check from Terry Prince made out to Arrington in the amount of twenty-five million dollars. How can I cash it before he changes his mind?”

  “Jesus, what’s it for?”

  “It’s a non-refundable deposit on the sale of her Bel-Air property to him.”

  “What bank is it drawn on?”

  Stone got out the check and looked at it. “Wells Fargo,” he said.

  “What branch?”

  “It’s on Wilshire, near Prince’s offices.”

  “Here’s what you do: you be at the branch when it opens and ask for the manager. You show him the sales contract—has Prince signed it?”

  “Yes, it came already signed.”

  “Has Arrington signed it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get her to endorse the check, too. Then you tell the manager you want the funds wired to our trust account immediately. Got a pen?”

  Stone got out his pen and jotter pad. “Ready.”

  Eggers dictated the account number. “He’ll feel better about wiring it to our account, instead of a private account. Tell him to make the wire to my attention.”

  “What, so you won’t get it mixed up with all the other wires for twenty-five million dollars?”

  “Yeah. I’ll have somebody call you when the funds are in our account, and we’ll transfer the money to Arrington’s account at Chase this morning.”

  “Okay, I’ll follow your instructions.”

  “Good. By the way, I sent you a little gift package; you’ll get it by FedEx, early delivery.”

  “Is it a fruit basket, Bill?”

  “Not exactly, but you could look at it that way.”

  “Chocolates ?”

  “Again, not exactly.”

  “Well, I just can’t wait! I’m on pins and needles!”

  “Oh, shut up. I have to go to work, now; they get up early at Boeing.” He hung up.

  Stone turned to Dino. “I have to be at Prince’s bank, on Wilshire, when it opens.”

  “You do that,” Dino said.

  Arrington came out to the patio in pajamas and a dressing gown, glowing, in spite of no makeup. “Good morning, all,” she said. “I think this is going to be a wonderful day!”

  “Talk to Dino,” Stone said, handing her Prince’s check. “In the meantime I need you to endorse this check.”

  “Of course,” she said, signing it with a flourish.

  Manolo appeared to take their breakfast order, and he was holding a FedEx box. “This just came for you, Mr. Stone,” he said, handing it to him.

  Stone looked at the waybill. “It’s a gift from Bill Eggers,” he said. He ripped open the box and shook another, more elegant box from it. He opened the box and removed some tissue paper. Underneath was a stack of Woodman & Weld stationery and envelopes and a smaller box. Stone shook that open, and it was filled with cards. He held one up and read it: it proclaimed him a partner of Woodman & Weld. He handed one each to Arrington and Dino. “My card,” he said, then he looked at the letterhead and found his name among those of the partners listed there.

  “Congratulations!” Arrington and Dino said simultaneously. Stone glowed.

  51

  Stone left the house at eight-thirty and drove down to Wilshire. He was right, the Wells Fargo branch was near Prince’s building: it was in his building. He parked in the underground garage and took the escalator to the ground floor. He was ten minutes early, so he strolled over to the building’s directory and looked at the list of occupants. There were two: Wells Fargo Bank and Prince Properties. Management occupied the two top floors, and all the others seemed to be Prince subsidiaries, since they all had his name in their titles.

  A man came to the bank door from the inside and unlocked two deadbolts in the glass doors. Open for business. Stone walked inside and approached the first desk, where a middle-aged woman in a business suit sat. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning, how may I help you?”

  Stone handed her one of his new cards. “I’d like to speak to the manager, please. It’s a matter of some urgency.”

  “One moment, Mr. Barrington,” she said, reading his name from the card. She got up, walked a few yards to a mahogany door, rapped on it, and then went inside.

  Stone looked around. Seemed to be a normal banking day. People made deposits; people cashed checks; people filled out loan applications.

  The woman returned. “Mr. Woolich will see you,” she said. “Right through that door.” She pointed.

  Stone followed her finger to the mahogany door, knocked twice, and entered. A plump, balding man in his fifties sat behind a mahogany desk. He rose and offered his hand.

  “Good morning, Mr. Barrington. Please be seated.”

  Stone sat himself in a leather armchair.

  “How may I be of service?” Woolich asked.

  “I’d like to cash a check,” Stone replied. He handed it to Woolich.

  Woolich took a look at it, apparently thought he’d read it incorrectly, then took another look at it. He gulped. “You wish to cash this check?”

  Stone handed him a copy of the sales agreement. “Pursuant to this agreement with Mr. Prince.”

  Woolich read the document carefully. “Well, this certainly seems to be in order, Mr. Barrington, but we don’t have that much cash in the branch’s vault, and I’m not sure we have that much in the city of Los Angeles.”

  “Forgive me,” Stone said. “I didn’t make myself clear. I wish to wire the funds to the trust account of the law firm of Woodman & Weld, in New York.” He handed Woolich another of his cards upon which he had written the account number.

  “I
’m relieved to hear it,” Woolich said. “I had visions of having to hire an armored car.”

  Stone chuckled appreciatively.

  “Would you excuse me for a moment,” Woolich said.

  “Of course; as long as you leave the check with me. I wouldn’t want it out of my sight.”

  “Of course,” Woolich said, handing back the check. “I just want to be sure that the account holder has sufficient funds to pay the check.” He chuckled at his own joke, then left the room.

  Stone saw a light go on on Woolich’s phone, and after a moment, the light began to blink.

  Woolich returned. “Mr. Prince would like to speak with you,” he said. He indicated that Stone should come around the desk. “Just press the flashing button,” he said.

  Stone pressed the button. “Good morning, Terry,” he said.

  “Good morning, Stone. May I take this request for a wire transfer as an indication that your client has accepted my offer?”

  “You may.”

  “Do you have the signed contract with you?”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll send someone down for it immediately, then I’ll speak with Mr. Woolich again.” He hung up.

  Stone resumed his seat, and Woolich resumed his.

  “Lovely day,” the banker said.

  “Every day out here seems to be a lovely day.”

  “Ah, well, sunny California,” Woolich replied.

  There was a knock at the door, and Carolyn Blaine walked in. “Good morning, Stone,” she said.

  “Good morning,” Stone replied, handing her one copy of the sales agreement. “Duly witnessed by a member of the New York Police Department.”

  She looked at it, checked the signatures, and smiled broadly. “Congratulations!” she said.

  “And to you. I’m sure that running the project will be a lot of fun for you.”

  “Oh, yes.” She produced a cell phone and pressed a speed dial number. “All is in order,” she said. She listened, then handed the phone to Woolich.

  “Yes, Mr. Prince? As you wish.” He handed the phone back to Carolyn. “Thank you, Ms. Blaine.” He sat down again, and Carolyn left the room.

  “Please send the wire to the attention of William Eggers, Managing Partner.”

  “Of course.” Woolich turned to his computer, pulled up a form and began to type, entering the numbers Stone had given him. “Here goes,” he said, pressing the send key with a flourish. “Done.” He pressed a couple more keys and the printer beside his desk spat out a sheet of paper. Woolich signed it, then handed it to Stone. “The transfer is confirmed; the funds are in your trust account.”

  Stone read the confirmation, then stood up. “Mr. Woolich, it has been a pleasure doing business with you,” he said. The two men shook hands, and Stone left the bank, whistling a merry tune.

  Stone arrived at the house and found Arrington, in a bathing suit now, lying on a chaise beside the pool. He walked over, kissed her, and handed her the wire transfer receipt. “You are officially twenty-five million dollars richer,” he said.

  “How nice,” she replied. She patted the chaise next to her. “Sit for a moment.”

  Stone did so.

  “Rick Barron called ten minutes ago. He said that Jack Schmeltzer called him this morning and told him that he would be voting with Prince this afternoon.”

  That knocked the wind out of Stone. “That’s bad news,” he said. “What with Mrs. Grosvenor buying the Jennifer Harris shares and taking charge of Jim Long’s, we are, to put it as gracefully as I can manage, fucked.”

  “That seems so,” Arrington said, “but Rick, bless his heart, seems to remain just slightly optimistic.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No. He just said he will see us at the meeting at two o’clock on stage four.”

  “Well,” Stone said, sighing, “let’s hope that Rick’s and Dino’s optimism is not misplaced.”

  52

  Stone was tying a necktie in anticipation of the shareholders’ meeting when the phone in his room rang. “Hello?”

  “Stone, it’s Ed Eagle.”

  “Afternoon, Ed.”

  “I have some interesting news regarding Dolly Parks/Carolyn Blaine.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’ve had a phone call from the Santa Fe Police Department, from the detective in charge of the investigation into the murder of the wife of my client, Tip Hanks.”

  “Something new?”

  “Something old, actually. During the investigation a lipstick smear was found on a pillowcase in Mrs. Hanks’s bedroom. It wasn’t thought to be possible to extract a DNA sample from it at the time, but newer technology has prevailed, and the police have a fully constituted sample. All that remains now is to have Ms. Blaine tested for it.”

  “That’s good news, Ed.”

  “A problem, though; since there is no existing evidence that Ms. Blaine is Ms. Parks, there is no probable cause for the police to request a warrant requiring her to give a sample for testing.”

  “That is a problem, isn’t it?”

  “It is, unless you can help.”

  “What would you like me to do?”

  “Do you think there is some way you might be able to get a sample of her DNA?”

  “What, exactly, did you have in mind, Ed?”

  “I don’t know; get her into the sack and get a swab, I guess.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting that Ms. Blaine, if she is Ms. Parks, is a lesbian?”

  “More likely bisexual,” Eagle said, “in that she slept with Mr. Hanks as well as Mrs. Hanks.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Ed; she hasn’t shown the slightest interest in sex with me, and to tell you the truth, I have no interest in sex with her.”

  “Force yourself,” Eagle said.

  Stone laughed. “There’s got to be another way.”

  “All right, find another way.”

  “Ed, all I can tell you is that, should I have an opportunity to snag some small part of her precious bodily fluids, I will do so.”

  “I guess I can’t ask any more than that,” Eagle said.

  “You have already done so.”

  “My apologies.”

  “No apology necessary,” Stone said.

  “Your shareholders’ meeting is today, isn’t it?”

  “It is, but I’m afraid our side has come up short in the quest to deny Mr. Prince his opportunity to raze much of the studio, in favor of a hotel.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “On the bright side, I did bank twenty-five million dollars of his money this morning—a down payment on his purchase of Arrington Calder’s Bel-Air property.”

  “So, it’s a clean sweep for Mr. Prince, is it?”

  “Looks like it. I had hoped to see him laid low, but a quarter of a billion dollars for the Bel-Air property is a nice consolation prize.”

  “We should all be so consoled.”

  “Yes, we should. Gotta run, Ed.”

  “Keep in touch; I’m relying on you.”

  “Oh, the pressure!” Stone said, and hung up.

  The phone rang again almost immediately. “Hello?”

  “It’s Eggers.”

  “Good day, Bill; where are you?”

  “Still in Seattle. I wanted you to know I’ve been informed that we received Mr. Prince’s twenty-five million dollars into our trust account this morning. It has already been transferred to Arrington’s Chase accounts. Perhaps she should give her banker some instructions on how to invest it; you don’t want to lose a day’s interest on that kind of balance.”

  “Good point, Bill.”

  “And don’t forget to pay the taxes.”

  “Will do.”

  “When is your meeting?”

  “At two, L.A. time.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I’m afraid we’re all out of that, but thanks.”

  “You don’t have the votes?”

  “Only forty-eight percent, or
thereabouts.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “Yes, it is. Gotta run, Bill; thanks for the call.”

  Arrington and Dino were chatting on the patio when Stone got there.

  “Hi,” Arrington said. “Mike Freeman is joining us for lunch.”

  “Good,” Stone replied. Mike arrived a moment later, and they sat down to eat.

  Everyone was uncharacteristically quiet.

  “Such a nice day,” Dino said.

  “Ever the conversationalist, Dino,” Stone replied.

  “I thought somebody ought to say something.”

  Things got quiet again.

  “Arrington,” Mike said, “would you mind if I come to the shareholders’ meeting with you?”

  “I’d be delighted to have you, Mike. Why are you interested?” Mike looked a little sheepish. “Well, I’ve never seen the inside of a movie studio,” he said.

  Everybody laughed, and the conversation improved after that.

  53

  Manolo got out the Bentley, and the four of them piled in, Stone driving.

  “I have the terrible feeling that we are about to witness bad history,” Arrington said. “Like standing on an Oahu hilltop and watching Pearl Harbor get bombed.”

  “I have exactly the same feeling,” Stone said. “Dino, are you still all up about this?”

  “My bones tell me it’s going to be a good day,” Dino said.

  “Well, if it turns out not to be, we’re going to stand you against a wall and shoot you.”

  Everybody laughed a nervous laugh.

  They drove down into Beverly Hills and on toward the Centurion lot. They passed an empty bus going the other way with a banner stretching from one end to the other, saying SAVE CENTURION STUDIOS FROM THE PHILISTINES!!!

  “It seems we have support from somebody,” Stone said. “I wonder who?”

  “Movie lovers,” Dino replied.

  As they approached the main gate to the studio, they saw police cars with lights flashing, and a couple of hundred people were gathered, many carrying homemade signs exhorting shareholders to vote with the studio. There were two television vans parked near the gate with satellite dishes pointed skyward, and reporters and cameras attached to them by long cables.

  “I hadn’t expected this,” Arrington said from the front passenger seat.