Son of Stone

by Stuart Woods

  “Who is he?”

  “Lawyer, sort of a fix-it guy for Woodman & Weld.”

  “What does he fix?”

  “Whatever needs fixing, I guess.”

  “Is he married?”

  “No, famous bachelor. What, you want to screw him, too?”

  “Not that I would mind, but no. We have a picture of somebody who looks like him standing in line for a marriage license the other day.”

  “That would definitely not be Stone Barrington; he’d rather be struck by lightning.”

  “There were some other people with him and Dino that night—a woman and a couple of kids.”

  “One of the kids was Dino’s son—I don’t know his name. No idea who the others were.”

  “Thanks, sweetie.” Kelli hung up. Her stomach growled; it was nearly eight p.m. She turned to her computer and wrote: “Item: At whose marriage did the mayor officiate at Eduardo Bianchi’s house on Christmas Day? We thought Hizzoner didn’t hitch folks.”

  She printed it out and dropped it in the day editor’s in-box on the way to the elevator. She pressed the down button and waited, then the day editor appeared with a sheet of paper in his hand and thrust it at her.

  “This won’t fly,” he said.

  “Why not? My source is good.”

  “You don’t fuck with him.”

  “The mayor? We fuck with him all the time.”

  “That’s right, you’re new in town, aren’t you? We don’t fuck with Eduardo Bianchi. Nobody in this city does.” He turned and went back to his desk, and Kelli followed him.

  “So who the fuck is Eduardo Bianchi,” she demanded, “that we can’t fuck with him? I thought we could fuck with anybody, if the source was good.”

  “Almost anybody,” the editor said, sinking into his chair. “We don’t fuck with Rupert Murdoch, and we don’t fuck with Eduardo Bianchi.”

  She started to ask why, but he held up a hand.

  “Don’t ask,” he said. “Ever.”

  Kelli walked back to the elevator, fuming, and rode down to the lobby. She went outside and threw herself in front of a cab. “Eightyeighth and Second Avenue,” she said to the driver. All the way uptown she turned the thing over in her mind. By the time she got to Elaine’s she was determined to get to the bottom of this.

  She walked in and was greeted by Gianni, one of the two headwaiters. She ordered a drink at the bar, then grabbed Gianni’s sleeve when he came back from seating a party. “Gianni, you know everything; who were those people with Dino and Stone the other night?”

  “What people are those?” Gianni asked.

  “A beautiful blond woman and a couple of kids, one of them Dino’s.”

  Gianni looked at her evenly for a moment. “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he said.

  She started to pursue it with him, but he stopped her.

  “And let me give you some advice: don’t ask Elaine, either.” He walked away.

  She turned away, her cheeks burning. Gianni knew who she worked for, so she was going to have to be careful, if she didn’t want to get eighty-sixed from Elaine’s.

  A man came into the restaurant and sat down beside her at the bar. She cased him in the mirror: slicked-back black hair, Italian suit, cashmere overcoat.

  “Hi,” he said to her, holding out a hand. “Anthony Cecchini.”

  “Kelli,” she said, shaking the smooth hand. The guy was definitely not a stevedore.

  “Kelli what?”

  “Keane, with an ‘a’ and an ‘e’ on the end.”

  “Buy you a drink, Kelli?”

  “I’ve got one, thanks.”

  “The next one, then.”

  “Sure, why not.” He was kind of good-looking. “I perceive that you are Italian,” she said.

  He laughed. “You’re very perceptive.”

  “Tell me, Anthony, does the name Eduardo Bianchi mean anything to you?”

  He froze. “Where did you hear that name?” he asked.

  “Oh, around.”

  He turned to the bartender. “Kevin, her next drink is on me,” he said, then he got up and moved to the other end of the bar.

  Kelli was flabbergasted, and she didn’t flabbergast easily. What the fuck was going on here?

  24

  A couple of days after Christmas Stone was catching up on his corporate reading, when Joan buzzed him.

  “A Mr. John Ellis, from Knickerbocker Hall, on one.”

  Stone picked up the phone. “Stone Barrington.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” the man said. “I’m John Ellis from Knickerbocker.”

  “Good morning.”

  “I run a little office at the school that deals with keeping our budget on an even keel,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “I’m afraid that running the school on tuition fees just isn’t possible, and we rely on the kindness of our alumni and the parents of our students to help us keep the ship upright.”

  “How can I help you, Mr. Ellis?”

  “I understand that when you took the tour last week you had a look at our film school facilities.”

  “That’s correct, we did.”

  “Perhaps you’ll recall that two of our three cameras were out of service.”

  “My son certainly remembers that,” Stone said.

  “Also, that our editing equipment needs updating.”

  “He recalls that, too.”

  “The school would be very grateful if you could manage a donation that could help us with the modernization of our film school.”

  “I see. I expect you have a figure in mind.”

  “We were hoping that you might think a donation of one hundred thousand dollars would be reasonable, given your very bright son’s deep interest in filmmaking.”

  “Let me speak with his mother about it, and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Of course, Mr. Barrington. Let me give you my direct line.”

  Stone wrote down the number, hung up, and buzzed Arrington.

  “Hello, there.”

  “Are you awake yet?”

  “More or less.”

  “You recall that I mentioned that Knickerbocker might put the bite on us for a donation?”

  “Yes, I recall.”

  “Well, they’ve taken less than a week to get around to it. A Mr. Ellis just called and mentioned that their film school equipment badly needs upgrading. They’re looking for a hundred thousand.”

  “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 & 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

  Kelli 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 & 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, either. 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 résumé 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

  Kelli 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.”