Sex, Lies & Serious Money

by Stuart Woods

  —

  CHIP HEARD a rustling noise from down the hill, then he heard the metallic snap of the pistol’s slide closing. He stood up and looked around. He could see the lights of the house, but that way was a man with a gun. He turned and ran blindly through the trees, holding up his arms to keep piñon boughs from slapping him in the face.

  —

  LAURENCE COULD HEAR the running footsteps ahead; then, for the first time, it occurred to him that whoever was out there might be armed, just as he was. He thumbed off the safety and moved slowly up the hill, his trigger finger laid along the weapon’s slide, as he had been taught at the range.

  —

  CHIP MADE THE ROAD and now he could see well enough to run flat out. He made the car in record time, started it, and reversed up the road and around a bend, before he felt it was safe to turn around. He expected gunfire through his rear window at any moment, but it didn’t come.

  —

  LAURENCE MADE THE ROAD and saw the dim shape of the car ahead, then it disappeared around a curve, and he saw the lights flicker on behind the piñons and heard the engine accelerate. He eased the hammer down on the pistol and took some deep breaths, his heart pounding. He knew he would have fired if he had seen a target, and that gave him pause. He walked down the hill in the road, to avoid setting off another flash, and a moment later he was back inside the house. He was in the bedroom when Theresa came out of the bath, naked, and he was able to get the pistol back into the drawer before she could see it.

  “I was hoping you’d already be undressed,” she said.

  “That won’t take long,” he replied, shedding clothes and climbing into bed beside her.

  —

  CHIP’S PHONE WOKE him shortly after dawn. “Hello?”

  “It’s Pat Bolton at the Inquisitor. You got my photographs?”

  “I was there last night, and I got blinded by a flash of light, then I heard somebody approaching, and a gun being racked. I got the hell out of there in a hurry.”

  “What do you mean, a flash of light?”

  “Like the flash on a camera, but brighter. I couldn’t see a thing for a couple of minutes.”

  “Well, shit, kid, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

  “What, you mean I should get shot taking your fucking pictures?”

  “Life is full of risk.”

  “I’ll get your photographs, but I’m not going to get killed doing it.”

  Bolton slammed down the receiver.

  —

  CHIP LAY THERE for a moment thinking about it, then he got up, got dressed, and grabbed his camera bag. It was before six in the morning, and he had a shot at getting photographs in daylight. This time he drove past the house, then walked back toward it. He turned into the trees and made his way slowly toward the house. The sun was up now, and while he could see, he knew he could be seen. He made his way past the pool and stopped with a view of a terrace. Then he heard a noise like a refrigerator door closing, and a naked woman came outside, stood on the terrace, and sipped from a glass of orange juice.

  Chip was transfixed and a moment passed before he got the camera up and pressed the button. Then a man joined the woman, as naked as she. He put his hands under her arms, lifted her off her feet and set her down on a tabletop. By the time Chip got his camera up again, the man’s head was buried between her legs. She set the orange juice down and grabbed his hair with both hands.

  Chip got three more shots, then the two went back into the kitchen. He checked the display and reviewed his pictures: They were good, but her face was obscured by the glass when she drank her juice, and, of course, his face couldn’t be seen when it was between her legs.

  He sat down on the ground and waited, hoping they would come outside again, but they didn’t. He worked his way around to the other side of the house but could see nothing. He waited for more than an hour for another opportunity, then he heard the clatter of a garage door opening, and a Mercedes station wagon drove away from the house with two people inside.

  He thought about going into the house, but if this guy had flashing security lights outside, he sure as shit had an armed security system for the house. He went home and e-mailed the photographs to Pat Bolton.

  Almost immediately, he got an answer: “Great stuff, but no ID. Keep trying! I’m past deadline for next week, but there’s always the week after!”

  Chip heard his mother calling him to breakfast, and he went downstairs for some eggs and bacon.

  “Did you sleep well?” she asked as she served him.

  “I woke up early,” he said, “and never got back to sleep.”

  “Are you going to look for a job today?”

  “Yeah, Mom, sure.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “I’ll go check with the New Mexican and see if they’ve got an opening yet.”

  “How many times have you done that?”

  “I don’t know, half a dozen maybe.”

  “You should try somewhere else.”

  He wanted to show her the pictures he had shot, just to prove he was trying to earn money, but he could imagine what her reaction would be.

  27

  LAURENCE AND THERESA followed the directions they had been given to the Eagle house, in the hills above Tesuque. A large stone eagle greeted them at the gate, wings outspread, and the house was of a contemporary style, but inviting.

  Ed Eagle greeted them and played bartender, and Stone and Gala arrived soon after. They sat down with their drinks.

  “We had an incident last night,” Laurence said.

  “What sort of incident?” Ed asked.

  Laurence told them about the new flash security lights.

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Stone said. “But what happened last night?”

  “Yes,” Theresa said, “I’d like to hear about that, too.”

  “I thought I’d keep it until we were here, then I wouldn’t have to repeat myself.”

  “Well, go ahead.”

  “We were getting ready for bed. Theresa was in the shower, and one of the lights went off outside. I ran downstairs,” he said, skipping the part about the gun, which neither Theresa nor Stone knew about, “and out into the piñons. I rousted somebody, apparently, and I could hear footsteps running and him brushing against the trees. He got to the road and ran for a short distance, then I heard a car start and got a glimpse of it as it reversed around a bend in the road. Then its lights came on and I heard it drive away in a hurry.”

  “Did you see the man?” Ed asked.

  “Only his back. He was smallish.”

  “Did you see the car?” Stone asked.

  “For a second or two. It was something small, like a Mini, I think.”

  “That sounds like the car I saw parked near your gate the night we came over,” Stone said. “Must be the same guy.”

  “And he’s not behaving like a burglar,” Ed said. “A burglar would be in the house as soon as you left.”

  “We didn’t leave last night, and our new security system is up and running.”

  Theresa spoke up. “I had the feeling—just a feeling—that there was someone in the trees outside the kitchen when we went down for breakfast.” She thought about that. “I hope I was wrong, because neither of us was wearing much.”

  “Neither of us was wearing anything at all,” Laurence pointed out, and everyone laughed.

  “They wouldn’t publish that . . .” Theresa began.

  “They almost certainly would,” Stone said.

  “Oops.”

  “Maybe I should just invite them to the house,” Laurence said. “Although I wouldn’t know whom to invite.”

  “Just get a copy of everything at the supermarket checkout and call the editors,” Susannah said. “If you want to go down that road.”

&n
bsp; “The other night you said I should ignore them.”

  “Two ways to go, mutually exclusive.”

  “Once they took some pictures and asked some questions, wouldn’t they go away?” Laurence asked.

  “That’s a toss-up,” Susannah said. “Could go either way. They might leave you alone, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Perhaps you should hire a publicist,” Stone said.

  “What for?”

  “If you want to get your picture in the papers, you hire a publicist,” Susannah said. “If you want to keep your picture out of the papers, you hire a publicist.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Laurence said.

  “I’m afraid it does,” Stone interjected. “A publicist becomes a buffer between you and the media. He or she will know the bad ones and the fairly good ones, and can play them off against each other. They’ll know that their best chance of cooperation is through a professional, which is what they think of themselves.”

  “I don’t know any publicists, and I don’t know how to find one.”

  “There are, basically, two kinds,” Stone said. “L.A. and New York. You don’t really need both unless you’re a married movie star who is sleeping with the nanny. There’s a woman in New York, Faith Mackey. I can introduce you to her.”

  “What does someone like that cost?”

  “You can afford it,” Stone said. “If it doesn’t work out, you can fire her.”

  “Maybe that’s what I should do, hire her,” Laurence said. “Theresa, what do you think?”

  “I think it can’t hurt, and it might help.”

  “All right.”

  “I’ll have Faith call you tomorrow,” Stone said. “I warn you, she can suck all the oxygen out of a room, but she’s very good at what she does.”

  “I’ll look forward to speaking with her,” Laurence said.

  —

  THE FOLLOWING DAY Laurence and Theresa were having lunch on the terrace when Laurence’s cell phone rang. A glance told him the call was a 917 area code, New York. “Hello?”

  “Laurence? This is Faith Mackey.”

  “How do you do?”

  “I do very well, thank you. I’m on the road from Albuquerque, about half an hour south of Santa Fe. What’s your address?”

  “One seventy-eight Tano Norte.”

  “Just a sec. Got you on Google Maps. Be there in forty-two minutes.” She hung up.

  “Who was that?” Theresa asked.

  “Faith Mackey, Stone’s publicist lady.”

  “Why did she hang up?”

  “She’s south of here, says she’ll be here in forty-two minutes.”

  “What’s she doing in Santa Fe?”

  “I have no idea.”

  —

  FAITH MACKEY was small and wiry, with short blond hair, somewhere in the mid-range between forty and sixty; she’d had some work done. When Laurence answered the door she shook his hand and talked quickly. He introduced her to Theresa. “Okay, L-a-u-r-e-n-c-e, am I spelling it right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I pretty much know your story, but tell it to me in your own words in three minutes, so I can fill in the chinks.”

  “Chinks?”

  “The empty places in your story.” She beckoned with both hands. “Let’s have it, we’re short of time.”

  Laurence started from the beginning and talked as fast as he could.

  “Great, stop. Got it. Have you got booze in the house?”

  “Of course, would you like a drink?”

  “No, you’re giving a little cocktail party at five o’clock, maybe a dozen, fifteen people.”

  “Do I make canapés?” Theresa asked.

  “Yeah, it’s not enough people for a caterer. Cheese and crackers are okay, anything else you’ve got on hand.” She looked around. “That’s a relief.”

  “What’s a relief?” Laurence asked.

  “It’s nice—I won’t have to stage it. Maybe I’ll move a couple things around. Dress casual, a little on the Western side, if you’ve got it.”

  “I have a fringed skirt and some boots I bought yesterday,” Theresa said.

  “Perfect.”

  “Everything I’ve got is Ralph Lauren,” Laurence said.

  “Ah, yes, courtesy of Miss Theresa, your personal shopper.”

  “Former personal shopper,” Theresa said. “I resigned yesterday.”

  “I’m a former English schoolmaster,” Laurence said. “I resigned, too.”

  “I don’t blame you. You won, what? Six hundred million?”

  “And change. Would you like some lunch?”

  “I’ve got a sandwich in my purse. Where can I eat?”

  28

  FAITH MACKEY ATE with one hand and phoned with the other, never stopping either, while Laurence and Theresa watched from the kitchen. Finally, she finished her sandwich, drank her water, and beckoned them outside.

  “Okay,” she said, looking at her notes on a steno pad. “Laurence, I’ve got somebody coming over with some clothes for you and some hair.”

  “Hair?”

  “There’s a previous photograph of you with longer hair and a beard. We want to keep you looking the same—you’ll be less likely to be hassled in public.”

  “Okay.”

  “Who plays the grand piano?”

  “I do,” Laurence said.

  “Can you do standard cocktail stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I want you playing when your guests arrive. It’ll give you a chance to look them over, and they’ll think you’re the hired help until I introduce you. Now, when did you buy the house?”

  “Four days ago.”

  “And moved in the same day?”

  “Right.”

  “They’ll already know that. Whose name is the house in?”

  “Theresa’s.”

  “You’re going to want to get that changed to a corporate name or a trust.”

  “How would anybody know anything about the house?”

  “Real estate agents are notorious gossips, and some of them string for the tabloids and worse, like the Drudge Report.”

  “What’s the Drudge Report?”

  “If you don’t know, you don’t need to. Some of the media may have already seen the sales contract. Have you closed?”

  “No, tomorrow.”

  “You can do the name change at that time. Ask your attorney to create a new corporation in your home state. Where is that?”

  “Florida.”

  “Good, call him today. Theresa?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re going to be my daughter today. Have you and Laurence been photographed together since you arrived?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Well, there was one moment when I thought . . .” She explained her feelings about the morning before.

  “Okay, if that happened, he was your boyfriend who left to go to New York this morning. Don’t give them a name. Laurence, you’re my houseguest here, and you’re going back to California tomorrow. In fact, this cocktail party is taking place in California, part of the ground rules.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Laurence told her about the incident with the intruder a couple of nights before.

  “So, he’s smallish and drives a Mini, or some such?”

  “Right.”

  “He’ll probably be here. Let’s pick him out right away and be careful of him. Theresa, you will decline to be photographed. Laurence, I will place you against that wall over there to be photographed. The picture could be anywhere, not Santa Fe. After you are photographed, excuse yourself and go upstairs—tell them you have to pack for an early flight, don’t say where.”

  “All right.”

  The doorbell ran
g.

  “Theresa, please get that. If it’s a lady with a makeup case, let her in. If not, call me.”

  Theresa went to the door and came back with a lady with two cases.

  “Laurence, Theresa, this is Betty Simmons, ace makeup artist and dresser. Laurence, try on the clothes Betty brought.”

  Laurence took the case into the kitchen, put on the clothes, and returned.

  “Excellent, a little on the scruffy side. When we get your makeup done you will be Laurence of old. They’ll have no idea what new Laurence looks like.”

  “Are we going to answer questions?” Laurence asked.

  “You are. They won’t care about Theresa because she’s my daughter and nothing to do with you.”

  “What sort of answers do you want me to give?”

  “Truthful ones, but avoid answers that give hints as to where you live or can be found or what your intentions are for the future.”

  “They’ll already know about the New York apartment and the Palm Beach house,” he said.

  “Nothing we can do about New York, unless you want to sell it.”

  “No.”

  “Okay, you’ve already sold the Palm Beach house and removed your belongings, closing in a few days. Let’s get that one off your map, along with Santa Fe. They’ll know about the Fairleigh, but you have hotel staff there to run them off.”

  “Right.”

  “Theresa, I’ll explain you as my daughter. Stick to that story, deflect questions to me or Laurence. You’re a civilian, and you don’t want to talk about your personal life, got it? Keep it polite, but cool.”

  “Suits me fine,” Theresa said. “Where do I live?”

  “New Jersey. The New York media don’t like going to New Jersey, and the L.A. media don’t know where it is, except that Tony Soprano lives there.” She checked her watch. “Okay, Theresa, you’d better scatter the food around where they can find it. Don’t serve them. Put a selection of booze on the bar with an ice bucket and some mixers and a bottle of white wine. Let them do the pouring, you can disinfect later.”

  Theresa went to do Faith’s bidding and Laurence was taken by Betty to the dining room table, where she opened her makeup case. “You had longer hair before, right?”