Sex, Lies & Serious Money

by Stuart Woods

  “A lift in what?”

  “I’m here in my own airplane.”

  “What sort of an airplane?”

  “A jet.”

  “Well, I seem to be moving up in all sorts of ways.”

  34

  AN ARRINGTON HOTEL CAR drove Stone to Centurion Studios the following morning, and his board of directors’ pass got him through the gate. Peter’s offices were housed in what had been Vance Calder’s cottage on the lot, and he had expanded into another building next door.

  Billy Barnett was waiting for him in a rocking chair on the front porch. Billy had begun life as Teddy Fay and had been a career CIA officer, working in and eventually directing their office of special services, which equipped agents with all sorts of things, from weapons to communications equipment and even more exotic items. Upon his retirement Teddy had started a personal war against certain politicians, and for some years he had been an elusive fugitive from justice, until Stone had used his friendship with the former president, Will Lee, to get him pardoned and his identity wiped clean from the government’s computers. “Billy Barnett” was now an upstanding citizen.

  They shook hands warmly. “Peter has another half an hour’s work to do in the editing suite,” Billy said. “He asked me to take you down to the studio commissary and get a table, and he’ll join us for lunch.”

  Billy escorted Stone to a golf cart, and they drove down the New York Street—the largest and most used standing set at the studio—and thence to the commissary, where a table awaited them.

  “I hear you had a brush with terrorism at the Arrington yesterday,” Billy said.

  Stone was astonished. “How the hell did you hear about that?”

  “Hollywood is a small town within Los Angeles. Word gets around quickly.”

  “I’ve seen just two people since the board meeting, where the bombing attempt was discussed in the strictest confidence, and both of them knew about it.”

  Billy smiled and spread his hands. “What can I tell you?”

  They ordered a cold soup and had finished that before Peter showed up. He and Stone embraced. “I’m glad you were safe from the bomb,” he said.

  “There, that’s three for three.”

  “What?” Peter asked.

  “No one is supposed to know about that, but everyone, including you, seems to.”

  “It’s a small town,” Peter said, and sat down.

  Stone regaled him with questions about his work and got fulsome answers. He was proud of his son, and he enjoyed hearing about his career. “And how’s our Ben Bacchetti doing in his new job?” Ben was Dino Bacchetti’s son and Peter’s production partner, but he had recently been elevated to the studio’s head of production, the youngest in Hollywood since Irving Thalberg in the twenties.

  “Ben is thriving. I think he actually enjoys being overworked.”

  “But he’s still producing your work?”

  “He is, and his new job means we have one less level to get approvals from. Only Leo Goldman stands between us and a production order, and he usually is thrilled to sign them.”

  “Funny how profits turn a CEO’s head. How is Leo?” Goldman was fighting cancer but still at work.

  “He’s undergoing a new treatment that seems to be working wonders. He looks great.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “By the way, Stone,” Billy said, “I don’t know if you’ve heard this, but the man who was arrested trying to detonate your bomb yesterday was a Centurion employee.”

  “Good God!”

  “I’m afraid so—young fellow in his twenties who was a technician in our armory.” The Centurion armory supplied weapons and blank ammunition for the studio’s movies. “There’s some speculation that he might have built the bomb here.”

  “Are you aware that there were three other bombs?”

  Billy and Peter shook their heads. “I guess it’s not as small a town as I had thought,” Billy said.

  “No, the other bombs were at our hotels in Rome, Paris, and next door to my house in England. The plan was for all three to go off simultaneously. Fortunately, our security people here got the word out and all the plots were foiled. They captured one man in England, the Rome and Paris bombers got away.”

  “Have you heard anything about who the London guy was?”

  “No, perhaps I should ask you two.”

  “I guess we’re not as plugged in with England,” Peter said. “None of the bombs went off?”

  “No. We’ve got a new piece of equipment called a security blanket. If a bomb is discovered the blanket is thrown over it, and it blocks radio and cell phone transmissions that might detonate it.”

  “What a great idea!” Peter said. “I can use that in a movie. It sounds like your security people are really on the ball.”

  “That’s true. With each of our hotels, we’ve had opposition from either terrorists or criminals—either the Italian Mafia or, even worse, the Russians.”

  “Have they been quiet lately?”

  “I think they’ve found us too costly to deal with. The Italian godfather is in prison, and most of the Russian opposition is dead.” He didn’t mention that Billy had been instrumental in their demise; Peter still didn’t know that Billy had saved their lives when he and Ben had been driving across the country to start their production company at Centurion.

  “So, Dad, who are you seeing these days? I heard that the affair with the screenwriter cooled down.”

  “I guess you could put it that way. I’ve met someone interesting since I’ve been here, though—a theatrical set designer named Jinx Jameson.”

  “I know the name,” Peter said. “They’re doing one of her productions at the Ahmanson Theatre.”

  “That’s why she’s in town. I’m giving her a lift home to New York tomorrow.”

  “Well, if that doesn’t impress her, nothing will. On the other hand, does she know you’re the pilot?”

  “I don’t believe I mentioned that,” Stone said.

  “She’s probably expecting something like the Centurion Gulfstream 650.”

  “I certainly hope not.”

  “You say ‘private jet’ and people think you’re flying something that will carry thirty passengers, instead of six.”

  “You could have a point. Well, it will teach her not to anticipate too much.”

  “The world would be a simpler place if people didn’t over-anticipate,” Billy said.

  “Perhaps I’d better drop a hint at dinner tonight.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Peter said. “She might back out, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  “No,” Stone replied, “I wouldn’t. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  35

  STONE WAITED UNTIL they were in bed that night, on their second occasion, to mention casually that he was flying his own airplane to New York.

  “Really? What airplane?”

  “A Citation CJ 3 Plus.”

  “How much total time do you have?”

  “Around four thousand hours in half a dozen airplanes.”

  “How much time in type?”

  “A couple of hundred hours. I owned two other light jets before, so I’ve got around twelve hundred hours in jets. You sound very familiar with airplanes.”

  “My father was a professional pilot, flew everything. The two questions he wanted to ask anyone who was flying him were total time and time in type.”

  “So, I passed the test?”

  “Not until I’ve experienced my first takeoff and landing with you. I have a private license that I don’t use very often, so I’ll know what to look for. Can I fly right seat?”

  “Sure. Speaking of landing, a client of mine and his girlfriend have invited us to overnight in Santa Fe on the way home. Do you have time for that?”

 
“I’ll make time. I’ve never been to Santa Fe. Just one night?”

  “Perhaps we’ll add another, if we’re invited.”

  “Who’s the client?”

  “A young man named Laurence Hayward.”

  “Why does that sound familiar?”

  Stone sighed. “He won the Powerball lottery last month.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve read about him in the papers. What sort of legal work do you do for him?”

  “Pretty much everything. A fellow who’s suddenly come into more than half a billion dollars needs all kinds of advice and services. I happened to be well positioned to put him into the right hands for legal, financial, real estate, and other services.”

  “What other services?”

  “Whatever he needs.”

  “What has he needed so far?”

  “All of the above, plus aviation advice and help with publicity. He bought the same airplane I fly and has ordered the new Citation Latitude for delivery next year. Right now, he’s building time.”

  “Lucky young man.”

  “We’ll see. Lottery stories seem to end badly for too many people.”

  “Do you think he’ll crash and burn?”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it. Right now, he’s in the first rush of knowing he can buy virtually anything he wants. He’s bought a New York apartment, and he bought the Santa Fe house at first sight. Luckily, he seems to have very good taste and judgment in just about everything. He also did something very nice for his mother and stepfather—he bought their city and country houses in England and gave them lifetime occupancy, so they can retire in great comfort with a lot of cash.”

  “That was sweet of him.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Enough of this chitchat,” she said. “Make love to me again.”

  “No more chitchat,” Stone said, turning his attentions to her.

  —

  THEY TOOK OFF from Santa Monica at mid-morning the following day, with Jinx in the copilot’s seat, handling the radios. She also started to learn the Garmin 3000 avionics.

  “I’ve flown a Cirrus with the Garmin 1000 panel,” she said, “so it’s not entirely foreign to me.” By the time they landed in Santa Fe she had the rudiments down.

  They took a rental car and drove out to Tano Norte. “I’ve been out here for dinner once,” Stone said, “and it’s a beautiful house, built by a woman with the reputation of being Santa Fe’s top designer/builder.” Fifteen minutes later they arrived and were greeted by Laurence and Theresa and shown into the guesthouse.

  “The air is wonderful,” Jinx said, inhaling deeply.

  “It’s also very thin. We’re at seven thousand feet here, so don’t overexert or drink too much until you’ve acclimated.”

  “And how long does that take?”

  “A day or two, for most people. Don’t go jogging.”

  “I suppose I have to give up sex until then.”

  “Certainly not. Sex is always good for you, no matter what the elevation.”

  They had a nap, then turned up in the main house at six, for a tour and cocktails.

  “It looks like you’ve lived here for a long time,” Jinx commented to Theresa.

  “That’s the fault of our builder, Sharon Woods. She furnished the place, right down to the bedding and towels.”

  They visited the bar for drinks, went into the living room, then Theresa took Jinx into the kitchen to get some canapés.

  Stone and Laurence sat down on the living room sofa, and Laurence took out his iPhone. “There’s something I want to show you,” he said, switching on the phone. “Thanks to you I now have a hotshot security system both here and in New York. Mike Freeman’s people called me early this morning to tell me I had had an intruder at the Fairleigh in the wee hours. They put together a little video to show me.”

  He went to a website and started the video, for which images from different cameras had been pieced together. It began just inside the front door of the apartment: the front door opened and a large man stepped inside and looked around, his face in the shadows. Then lights came on, and the image froze momentarily.

  “Do you know him?” Stone asked.

  “I do not, but he looks like that guy from the Three Stooges.”

  “Curly.”

  “Yes, but meaner-looking.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  The video continued as the man moved from room to room. He was searching Marge’s office, when something spooked him, and he ran for the door. Moments after he left, two hotel security men entered the apartment, and the video stopped.

  “That’s it,” Laurence said. “He was in the apartment for less than two minutes.”

  “Didn’t the alarm go off as soon as he entered?”

  “No, the alarm is silent, ringing only at Strategic Services. I didn’t want to alarm the neighbors with sirens. The silent alarm didn’t go off until a minute after he entered, to give time for the code to be entered in the command module before it activated.”

  “Have the police seen this?”

  “Yes, and they’ve identified him as one Marvin Jones, who had already been into the apartment once before—they identified him at that time by a fingerprint. The police have been looking for him ever since.”

  “He didn’t appear to steal anything.”

  “I think he was looking for my checkbook again, but since his first visit, and after the checks he wrote, Marge has had a safe installed in her office and everything financial is kept in there.”

  “He was looking very interested in that safe when he was rousted,” Stone said. “Don’t worry, they’ll haul him in eventually.”

  The women came back with the canapés, and Laurence whispered to Stone, “Theresa doesn’t know about this, so don’t mention it. I don’t want to frighten her.”

  Stone nodded and accepted a canapé. “Laurence, Theresa, I’ve just had a thought: You don’t know a lot of people in New York, do you?”

  “I don’t,” Laurence replied. “Theresa, do you?”

  “Mostly women I went to Mount Holyoke with.”

  “Every year, Strategic Services throws a party for its key staff and a couple of dozen of their best clients. This year, it’s to be at my house, but my living room isn’t really big enough. I wonder if you’d consider hosting it at your apartment? At no cost to you, of course.”

  The two young people exchanged a glance. “Of course. When is it?”

  “In a couple of weeks. The invitations will go out in a couple of days.”

  “We’ll be back by then,” Laurence said. “Just let me know what time and how many. I’ll hire waiters.”

  “Mike Freeman, the CEO, will take care of that. All you’ll have to do is come to the party. Oh, and it will be black tie, so, Theresa, you’ll have an excuse to buy a new dress.”

  “I can’t complain about that,” she said.

  36

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Stone called Mike Freeman and discussed the new venue. “His living room is enormous, and it will be better for the guests than my house.”

  “Sounds good. I’d like to meet Laurence.”

  “And there’s a grand piano and room for some musicians.”

  “I’ll send our catering manager over to have a look at it.”

  “I’ll ask Laurence to tell the concierge to let her in.”

  “When are you due back in town?”

  “A couple of days. My companion hasn’t seen Santa Fe yet.”

  —

  THE FOUR OF THEM piled into Laurence’s station wagon, since he and Theresa hadn’t seen much of the area, either. Stone drove, since he knew the territory.

  A couple of miles up Tano Road, Stone saw a car in his rearview mirror. He had a couple of turns to make to get into the center of the city, a
nd the car turned with him, though keeping well back. “Laurence,” he said, “remember the night I had a look at a car across the road from your house?”

  “I do. Was it a silver Mini?”

  “It was and is. It’s been following us since Tano Road.”

  “It’s a local kid who’s a stringer for the National Inquisitor. It’s not the first time he’s made a bother of himself—he sneaked up on the house right after the security system was installed, and I nearly took a shot at him.”

  “With what?”

  “I bought a pistol.”

  “I see.”

  “He came to the press event that Faith Mackey set up, and I thought I’d seen the back of him, but I guess not.”

  “Do you think he might be dangerous?”

  “No, he’s just a skinny kid trying to make a few quid—excuse me, bucks.”

  Stone turned onto Paseo de Peralta, which made a grand circle through some of the more interesting areas in town, then he turned onto Upper Canyon Road.

  “Canyon Road? Isn’t this where the art galleries are?”

  “That part is down the hill, I just want to get a closer look at our tail.”

  Stone drove past houses that became less frequent as they climbed the mountain. At the very top of the road there was a turnaround, and momentarily, the Mini passed him on the way up and made the turn, too. Stone stopped the station wagon and turned to block the road, then he got out. “Stay here, please,” he said to the others.

  The Mini had stopped, and the young man stared owlishly at him through black-rimmed glasses as he approached. Stone rapped on the window glass with a knuckle; the kid thought about it for a minute, then the glass slid down. “What’s on your mind?” Stone asked.

  “Nothing, not a thing.”

  “Don’t you know you can get into trouble doing this sort of thing?”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Annoying people who want privacy. That’s what you get paid for by the Inquisitor, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “How about if I call Pat Bolton and tell him you’re lousy at your job?”