Son of Stone sb-21

by Stuart Woods

  “I talked with Peter about their equipment,” she said. “From what he’s told me about the cost of such stuff, I’d think it would take half a million to make a difference for the film department.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Stone said, “but-”

  “Oh, Stone, just tell Joan to write the check on my account and to bring it up to me for a signature. We should get signature cards for my accounts, too, so we can add yours.”

  “As you wish, love.”

  “See you at lunch.”

  Stone hung up and buzzed Joan. “Have you got Arrington’s checkbook?”

  “Yes, she gave it to me when she got here.”

  “She wants to make a donation to Knickerbocker Hall of five hundred thousand, and she’s asked that you write the check and bring it upstairs for her signature.”

  “Will do.”

  “Also, she wants me to be a signatory on some of her accounts. Ask her which ones and call them for the proper paperwork. And make her a signatory on my accounts, too.”

  “Again, will do.”

  Stone called back John Ellis.

  “Yes, Mr. Barrington.”

  “We’d like to make a donation of five hundred thousand, Mr. Ellis.”

  Ellis’s voice lit up. “Well, that’s very generous, Mr. Barrington.”

  “And we’d like your personal assurance that the entire sum will be spent on the upgrading of your filming and editing equipment,” he said, “and we’d like to do it anonymously.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “The check will go out today.” Stone said good-bye and hung up before Ellis could enthuse further.

  Stone and Arrington were having coffee after lunch. Peter and Ben had gone to the movies.

  “I told Joan to get you put on all my accounts at Chase,” Arrington said. “Banking and investment.”

  “If that’s what you want,” Stone said.

  “We have to get something straight,” Arrington said.

  “All right.”

  “I don’t know exactly how much money you make, and I don’t care, but I don’t expect you to make gifts of half a million dollars from your own resources. We’re married now, and as far as I’m concerned, what’s mine is yours. We’ll have joint accounts on everything. I’ve asked Joan to get us new checks reflecting that.”

  “I’d prefer to go on paying for everything I’m accustomed to paying for,” Stone said.

  “Whatever you wish,” she replied. “Just know that we’re never going to have an argument about money. If you think we should give Knickerbocker another million, just write the check.”

  “I would be very uncomfortable doing such a thing without consulting you first,” Stone said.

  She kissed him. “I trust you completely,” she said. “I’m aware that in the year since you and Woodman amp; Weld have been handling my finances, my net worth has increased more than thirty percent. That would never have happened under my old arrangement.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I also spoke to Bill Eggers about making a new will,” she said. “He suggested that you might feel better if I worked directly with him on that, instead of involving you.”

  “Bill was right,” Stone replied.

  “I have an appointment with him this afternoon. I know there are major tax issues, and I want everything taken care of immediately.”

  “I recall that you were never a procrastinator,” Stone said.

  “Not now or ever,” she said, laughing.

  Late in the afternoon, Arrington came into Stone’s office and handed him two blue legal envelopes. “Here is the original of my will and one copy. Isn’t word processing wonderful? We got the whole business taken care of in two hours.”

  “I’ll put them in the safe,” Stone said, buzzing Joan.

  Joan came in, and he handed her both envelopes. “This is the original and a copy of Arrington’s new will,” he said. He took off his signet ring and handed it to her. “Seal both with wax, write the date on the envelope, and put them in the safe. I don’t ever want to see them.”

  “Will do, boss,” she said, then she handed him a sheaf of papers.

  “Chase messengered over these documents and the new checks. You both need to sign them.”

  Stone and Arrington signed at the places indicated.

  “There,” Arrington said, kissing him. “Now we are truly one, blessed by the Chase Private Bank.”

  25

  K elli Keane got off the elevator and stopped at the day editor’s desk on the way to her own. “Do we have someone who can search public records for us?”

  “Yes,” the editor replied, without looking up from his screen. “You.”

  Kelli went to her desk and dropped her large handbag, then phoned her acquaintance at City Hall.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Kelli.”

  “Well, hi, there. We getting together this week?”

  “You can buy me dinner tomorrow night at Elaine’s, eight-thirty. You book the table.”

  “Done.”

  “Do you have anything more on who got married at what’s-hisname’s house?”

  “Not a word. I don’t think anybody here knows.”

  “Were they friends of what’s-his-name or the mayor’s or both?”

  “No idea.”

  “I want more information tomorrow night,” she said, “and I want you to get me a copy of a recently issued marriage license, since you’re so conveniently located.”

  He sighed. “All right, who?”

  “Stone Barrington.”

  “Is Stone the first or last name?”

  “First. Barrington, Stone. E-mail it to me before lunch, will you?”

  “You’re very bossy.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” she breathed into the phone.

  “Before lunch,” he said.

  Kelli Googled Stone Barrington and found only a few dozen references, mostly dealing with legal cases he had worked on, and there was an announcement from a year ago that he had been made a partner of Woodman amp; Weld. She was surprised to learn that he had been involved in the investigation of the murder of the movie star Vance Calder, fifteen years before. Kelli, being in her twenties, knew of Calder only from his old films on various cable channels. She had never watched one. She looked up the actor on Wikipedia and was surprised at the length of his entry, his filmography of seventy-five and his five Oscars. There was little about his personal life, only that he had married in his late sixties and fathered a child.

  She looked up from her screen and found the day editor staring down at her. “What?” she asked.

  “What are you working on?”

  “Something really interesting,” she said.

  “How interesting?”

  “Interesting enough for me to devote a few days to the story and not be pecked to death by lesser assignments.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You have a way of cutting me off at the knees whenever I come to you with interesting information, so I’m not going to tell you about this one until I have it fully sourced and sewn up.” He stared at her for a long moment, and she realized he was looking at her cleavage. “What else can I do for you?” she asked, leaning forward to give him a better view of her unfettered breasts. He turned around and walked back to his desk, and Kelli breathed a sigh of relief.

  She checked her e-mail and found one from her contact in the mayor’s office. She opened it, then the attachment, printed it and saved it under a new file name, then she took the sheet of paper out of the printer and examined it.

  Stone Malon Barrington had been granted a license, dated December 22, to marry Christine A. Carter. His address sounded like Turtle Bay, and hers was the same. She Googled Carter and learned that she was a freelance writer and had had many magazine articles published, including, some years before, a profile for the New Yorker of Vance Calder. There was no article newer than that and nothing newer in her Google search, eithe
r. So the only nexus of Carter and Barrington was Vance Calder, fifteen years before. Odd, she thought, since they were both New Yorkers and Calder had lived in Los Angeles.

  She went back to her Google search of Calder and looked for a biography. Two had been written, both more than twenty years ago, so they were of no use. She called a young man in the Arts section, with whom she had had a dalliance.

  “Jess.”

  “Kelli, how you doing?”

  “Okay. You’re a film buff, right?”

  “Gee, how’d you guess? Could it be because I review them for the paper?”

  “Tell me about Vance Calder.”

  “Hollywood great, up there with Jimmy Stewart, Spencer Tracy, and Cary Grant; five Academy Awards, eighteen nominations, both records for an actor. What else do you need to know?”

  “Personal stuff.”

  “Bachelor for most of his life, lived quietly, didn’t give interviews-print or TV, except once for a New Yorker profile. The old-timers like Calder didn’t do the publicity thing much.”

  “How come?”

  “They didn’t need to. The studios handled publicity but kept the press off their backs. I mean, you never saw Clark Gable on The Tonight Show, did you?”

  “Then why would Calder sit still for a New Yorker profile?”

  “The most prestigious of all magazine pieces, and he was nearer the end of his career than the beginning. It made quite a splash at the time, as I recall.”

  “Do you know anything about Christine Carter, who wrote the piece?”

  “Was that her name? I forget.”

  “She apparently hasn’t written anything since.”

  “Maybe she got married and quit.”

  “Not until Christmas Day of this year, I think.”

  “Married or quit?”

  “Married.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard about this, Kelli, but people sometimes marry more than once.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Jess.” She hung up. Now, how the hell could she research somebody who fell off the map fifteen years ago? There was no resume attached to a marriage license.

  Then she had a thought. She checked her makeup, then walked across the room and down a corridor where senior people had actual, enclosed offices, some of them with windows. She stopped before one; the name on the door was Prunella Wheaton. Prunella was an old-line gossip queen whose column had been running in the paper for something like fifty years. The door was open, nobody home.

  “Can I help you?” a deep female voice said from behind her.

  Kelli turned to find her-tall, slim, beautifully dressed, and with just enough surgical work done to keep her breasts high and her wrinkles in check. She had to be eighty, but she didn’t look a day older than sixty. “Oh, Miss Wheaton,” Kelli gushed. “I’m Kelli Keane. I’m on Page Six. I wonder if I could talk with you for a moment?”

  Wheaton shrugged. “Come on in, sweetie, and take a pew.”

  Kelli perched on a chair across the desk from the woman. “I’m looking for information on Vance Calder, the actor.”

  “Of course,” Wheaton replied. “What do you need?”

  “Did you know him, by any chance?”

  Wheaton leaned back in her chair. “Know him? I fucked him.”

  26

  K elli laughed in spite of herself.

  “And not just once or twice,” Prunella Wheaton said, smiling a little. “Often, and with enthusiasm, for the better part of a year.”

  Kelli started to ask a question but decided it was better to shut up and listen.

  “Vance had won an Oscar for his first film outing, a western called Bitter Creek. During filming his girlfriend, whose name I’ve forgotten, was murdered by some maniac, and he was very depressed about it for a while. I was an aspiring actress then, and I went to Centurion for an audition, which he attended, and I guess I caught him on the upswing. Vance was about twenty-one but looked five or six years older. I was about your age, and I got the part, a good one. I had a couple of other decent film parts, then I made a stinker that marred my career. I cried on the shoulder of Louella Parsons, and she took pity on me and offered me a job as her assistant. I learned the trade from her, and when Louella kicked off, I got my own column.”

  “Did you continue to see Vance after that?”

  “Occasionally. We remained on good terms, and he would let me call him now and then for a confirmation on a story. He never leaked, though, and I respected him for that.” She smiled again. “In addition to being the handsomest man I ever met, Vance was also the best lay I ever had-really adventurous and a sweet lover. I never did as well again.”

  “Did you know his wife? The one he married in his sixties?”

  “No, by that time I was in New York and out of touch with Vance. The only time I heard anything about them was when a rumor circulated that she had been kidnapped-someone wanted something from Vance, I forget what. I called him, and he denied the whole thing, and so did the police, so that was the end of it.

  “The last time I heard anything about her was a year or so ago when some L.A. developer took a run at Centurion. He wanted the back lot to build an office complex and hotel on, and Mrs. Calder opposed him and won. Vance had been buying stock in the studio since the early days and I hear owned at least a third of it.”

  “So Mrs. Calder inherited that?”

  “That and a great deal more. Vance was very smart and a very good businessman. He worked all the time, for big money, and he invested brilliantly, the way Bing Crosby and Bob Hope had done. I don’t think there was ever a richer actor in Hollywood. Some reports said he was worth more than a billion dollars.”

  “Wow. And then he was murdered.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “Some woman he’d been having an affair with, I think. His wife was a suspect for a while, and she was dodging the police, but the thing was settled when the other woman committed suicide and left a note, as best I can recall.”

  “Are you acquainted with someone called Stone Barrington?” Kelli asked.

  “Lawyer, habitue of Elaine’s. I don’t go so much anymore.”

  “He was apparently involved in the investigation into Calder’s death.”

  “Oh? I don’t remember that.”

  “Was Mrs. Calder’s name Christine?”

  Wheaton shook her head. “No, not Christine. Funny, I can’t remember it now.”

  “Thank you, Miss Wheaton,” Kelli said, rising.

  “You’re a beautiful young thing,” Wheaton said. “Call me Prunie; everybody does.”

  “Thank you, Prunie.”

  “Come see me anytime.”

  Kelli thanked her again and went back to her desk. She got on her computer and went into the paper’s archives, business section, and started a search beginning a year before. “Centurion, Calder” brought up the headlines about the stock battle at the studio and Mrs. Calder’s part in it. She read the accounts without ever seeing Mrs. Calder’s first name, but then, at the very end was a short piece saying that Michael Freeman, chairman and CEO of Strategic Services, who had voted his stock with Mrs. Calder, and Stone Barrington, of the law firm of Woodman amp; Weld, had joined the board of directors of Centurion Studios.

  Kelli knew of Strategic Services as some giant security company that supplied bodyguards and armored cars to companies all over the world, and if the company was a major stockholder in Centurion, it made sense that Freeman might become a director. But Stone Barrington? He was a fixer for Woodman amp; Weld, who had been a partner for only a year. What was he doing on Centurion’s board?

  27

  S tone and Arrington were having breakfast in bed when Peter appeared, wearing a parka over a sweater and jeans, and carrying a leather tote bag. “Good morning,” he said, “I’m off to school.”

  “Sweetheart,” Arrington said, “are you sure you don’t want us to drive you?”

  “Oh, come on, Mom, I’m way beyond tha
t. I’ll get the bus and walk a couple of blocks. I can’t be seen arriving at the front door in a Bentley.”

  “He’s right, you know,” Stone said. “Did Joan give you your Metrocard, Peter?”

  “Yep, I’m all set.”

  “You need lunch money?”

  “You gave me a hundred bucks a few days ago. I haven’t eaten my way through that, yet.”

  “Okay, sport, go get ’em.”

  Peter gave them a little wave and left.

  “God,” Stone said, “I never thought I’d be sending a kid off to school.”

  Arrington laughed. “Thank your lucky stars that you never had to change his diapers.”

  “I thank my lucky stars.”

  “What are we doing for dinner?”

  “Meeting Dino and Ben at Elaine’s, what else?”

  “You’re right, what else?” she said.

  Kelli Keane and her friend from the mayor’s office, Bruce Sirowitz, arrived at Elaine’s at eight-thirty, and were given a decent table along the main wall, but near the back of the restaurant.

  “Good work,” she said.

  “It’s not my first time here,” Bruce replied.

  They ordered drinks, and Kelli leaned out into the aisle and looked again at the tables up front. “They’re not here yet,” she said.

  “Who’s not here?”

  “Dino Bacchetti and Stone Barrington.”

  “Bacchetti from the Nineteenth Precinct? He’s one of the mayor’s favorite cops.”

  “He was at that wedding at what’s-his-name’s house on Christmas Day, wasn’t he?”

  “Kelli, don’t start that again.”

  “It was Barrington who got married that day.”

  “You don’t know that. You know only that he got a license earlier.”

  “It makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is who his wife is.”

  “It was on the marriage license, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes: Christine A. Carter. She’s a blank on Google for fifteen years. Wrote magazine pieces, did a profile of Vance Calder for the New Yorker. I think she may have married him.” She grabbed his wrist and squeezed. “I was right; here they come.”