Son of Stone

by Stuart Woods

  Wheaton looked and seemed to do the math. “This makes the boy eighteen,” she said, furrowing her brow, “and Arrington’s name wasn’t Barrington that long ago.”

  “But if the boy was born when your source said he was, that is, after the marriage of Calder and Carter, he would be only sixteen now.”

  “That is baffling,” Wheaton said, shaking her head and reading the certificate again. “But why would they want the boy born two years earlier? That would obviate Calder as the father and make the boy a bastard. Is it possible that Stone and Arrington had an earlier marriage and were divorced? And that the boy was two when she was remarried to Vance?”

  “There’s no record of either Arrington or Stone being married to anybody before the marriage to Calder, at least, not in New York or California,” Kelli said. “I checked the records.”

  “The other thing is,” Wheaton said, “as far as we know, Arrington and Stone were both living in New York for the four years prior to the marriage to Vance. So why would the birth be registered in L.A.?”

  “I don’t know, and the birth certificate doesn’t list the address of either of them. Also, you can’t live in L.A. without driving, and Arrington didn’t get a California driver’s license until shortly after she was married to Vance.”

  “Maybe the boy’s birth date is just a typo on the certificate,” Wheaton said. “Why don’t you check the hospital records and see if they match the year on the certifi cate.”

  “Which hospital was it?” Kelli asked.

  Wheaton looked at the certificate again. “Uh-oh,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I missed this the first time. The birth took place at the Judson Clinic, in Beverly Hills.”

  “I’ll call them.”

  “Don’t bother,” Wheaton said. “The Judson Clinic is a very private hospital, the sort of place that tout Hollywood goes to when they want a quiet abortion, or a quiet detox, or a quiet breakdown. Vance was very private. There was no birth announcement in the papers, even, and it didn’t make the columns. You won’t crack the Judson.”

  “Well, shit,” Kelli said in disgust. “I’m all out of options.”

  “Then get Arrington on the phone and ask her to explain all this.”

  “I called yesterday, and a secretary told me that Mrs. Barrington is writing a book about her marriage to Vance Calder, her marriage to him and his murder, and that she will have no comment to the press until the book is published, and maybe not even then. And if that isn’t enough, she’s out of town, and the secretary wouldn’t say where or for how long.”

  “Well, at least you’ve got that little exclusive for Page Six: Arrington Calder Barrington is writing a tell-all book. Go with that. Maybe somebody will crawl out from under a rock, so make sure your byline is on the story.”

  Kelli set down her empty coffee cup. “Good idea,” she said. “Thanks for the advice.” She went back to her desk, wrote a paragraph, including the information that Arrington had, at first, been a suspect in her husband’s death, and took it to the day editor.

  “What’s your source for this business about the book?” he asked.

  “Her husband’s secretary. She gave me that as a reason for Arrington’s not speaking to me.”

  “Okay, I’ll run it at the bottom of the page, but no byline.”

  “I need the byline, because it might generate a call from somebody who knows something.”

  “Knows something about what?”

  “It’s going to take me at least fifteen minutes to bring you up to date,” Kelli said. “Have you got that much time right now?”

  “Go,” he said.

  So, she pulled up a chair and laid out everything she had.

  “Maybe it’s just a typo on the certificate,” the editor said.

  Kelli explained why she couldn’t check with the hospital. “So, there are only two people who know the truth about this: Arrington and Stone Barrington, and neither of them is talking.”

  “How about the boy?” the editor asked.

  “He was pretty young at the time.”

  “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know who his father is or the circumstances of his birth. Things like that get talked about in families.”

  “I’ve already had a shot at the boy, and he cut me dead, wouldn’t even give me his name.”

  “Oh, come on, Kelli; a girl as attractive as you are shouldn’t have a problem getting an eighteen-year-old male to talk to her.”

  “Give me the byline, and I’ll give the boy another shot.”

  “Okay,” the editor said. He marked up the story and tossed it into his out basket. “Now get out of here.”

  35

  Stone woke up at his usual time and reached, as he had become accustomed to, for Arrington’s ass. His hand fell on a cold sheet, and he remembered that she was in Virginia. She had called the night before to let him know she had landed safely and to speak to Peter, but that wasn’t the same as falling asleep or waking up with her. Stone felt something he wasn’t accustomed to: loneliness.

  Stone arrived at his desk without having shaken the feeling. Joan came in.

  “That woman from Page Six, Kelli Keane, called again yesterday. I gave her the story about Arrington writing a book, and I think she bought it.”

  “Actually, it’s the truth,” Stone said. “Arrington plans to do just that.”

  “Boy, I want to read that one,” Joan said, then went back to her desk. A moment later she buzzed: “Bill Eggers on line one.”

  Stone picked up. “Good morning, Bill.”

  “A better morning than you may know,” Eggers said. “Hank Hightower called a moment ago and hired us to handle Steele Security—all of it. We’ll have an agreement for him to sign before the close of business today, and he’ll have fired his previous firm by that time, so we’re getting ready to receive their files. His old firm will bombard us with irrelevant paper, and we’ll have to sort it out for ourselves.”

  “You do understand, don’t you, Bill, that I’m just terrible at that kind of work?”

  “Don’t worry, that’s what we have associates for. And speaking of associates, I think it’s time we assigned one to you.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Bill. I’m getting tired of reading all the financial paper. It would be good to have somebody prioritize what I need to know.”

  “I’m going to give you a young woman named Allison Wainwright,” Eggers said. “She’s been here a year, so she’s not green, and I think she’ll be a good fit for you.”

  “Thanks, Bill.”

  “Shall I send her over to see you?”

  “Sure; I’m here all day.”

  “You’ll find her a little . . . different.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s hard to characterize. You can make your own judgments. If you don’t like the way it’s going, I’ll pull her and assign you somebody else.”

  “Okay.”

  “Talk to you later.” Eggers hung up.

  Less than an hour passed when Joan buzzed. “There’s an Allison Wainwright to see you.”

  “Ah, yes. I forgot to tell you, she’s an associate at Woodman & Weld, and Eggers has assigned her to me. Send her in, and then you can put her in the office next to yours.”

  “Okay.”

  There was a rap at the door, and Stone looked up to see an impeccably dressed young woman, with perfect dark hair and chiseled features. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning. I’m Allison Wainwright.”

  Stone stood up, shook her hand, and waved her to a chair in his seating area, then sat down himself.

  “Do you have any idea why I’ve been assigned to work here?” she asked.

  “Bill Eggers thinks I need an associate. I’ve no idea why he picked you.”

  “I’m not sure I like the idea of being stuck in Turtle Bay,” she said.

  “The door you came in by works both ways,” Stone said, “but before you leave, shall we tal
k a little?”

  “Oh, all right,” she said.

  “Tell me about your background.”

  “Personal or educational?”

  “Whatever you think is important for me to know.”

  She took a deep breath. “Born and raised in New York City, Spence School, then Mount Holyoke and Columbia Law.” She hadn’t needed a second breath.

  “You look like all of those,” Stone said.

  “What do you mean by that?” she asked, sounding defensive.

  “I meant it to be a compliment,” Stone replied.

  “Oh. What, exactly, do you expect from me?”

  “For a start, I want you to read all the corporate paper that comes into this office from Strategic Services and, starting soon, from Steele Security, our new client, and brief me on the high points. In short, I want to be able to appear that I know about everything financial in both firms, without actually having to read the documents.”

  “I get the picture.”

  “I believe they’ll be sorting out the files as they arrive from the client’s previous firm, so you won’t have to do that.”

  “What else?”

  “I’ll let you know when it comes up.”

  “Is your secretary my secretary, too?”

  “Did you have a secretary in the Seagram Building?”

  “Just somebody to handle the phones.”

  “Joan will do that for you here. We have a line that runs through the main switchboard, so you should probably route your calls through them; Joan will give you an extension number. My advice to you is, make friends with Joan.”

  “Why?”

  “First, common courtesy; second, she’s a very nice lady and extremely capable; third, she makes a bad enemy.”

  “All good reasons,” Allison said.

  “And if you’re unhappy working in Turtle Bay, you can work from your own desk at W&W, but don’t let your distance make more work for Joan, like calling her to come get a file. If you become friends, she’ll go out of her way to help you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Allison, you seem to have some sort of chip on your shoulder. You want to tell me about it?”

  “It’s nothing to do with you, in spite of what I’ve heard. I just thought that by this time, I’d be doing more important work.”

  “What sort of work?”

  “More client contact.”

  “You’ve been with the firm for what, a year?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are people over there who’ve been associates for twenty years or more and have rarely seen a client, and they’re doing important work. My experience of Bill Eggers is that he likes to see people succeed, and if you impress him, you’ll be given all the responsibility you can handle.”

  “I’ve heard that,” she said.

  “Did you expect that you’d make partner by now?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Why do you think Bill sent you to me?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said.

  “Have you been having problems with people in Seagram?”

  “A little, maybe.”

  “Well, there are fewer people to get along with here; maybe Bill thought it would be good practice for you to start small, before you go back to the offices.”

  “You haven’t asked what I’ve heard about you,” she said.

  “I’m not interested in gossip. If you’ve heard something that concerns you, then bring it up now or later, and we can talk about it.”

  “All right. I’ve heard that you will screw anything that moves, and I’m not up for that.”

  Stone laughed. “Perhaps you haven’t heard that I’m recently married.”

  “No, I hadn’t.”

  “She’s in Virginia, moving into a new house that she started a year ago, and she’ll be gone the better part of a month, but your virtue is not in jeopardy. And we have a son who’s in school at Knickerbocker Hall, on the Upper East Side. His name is Peter, and you’ll meet him in due course. You’ll find that he’s smarter than you, just as he’s smarter than I. It can be a little unsettling at first, but he’s a good kid.”

  “I’ll look forward to meeting him.”

  “One other thing: a gossip-type journalist has been sniffing around since our wedding, so be on your guard, and let me know immediately if somebody sidles up to you and starts asking questions. Our privacy is important to us.”

  “Of course.”

  “Any other questions?”

  “I expect I’ll have some soon.”

  “Try Joan first, then me. Go see her, and she’ll get you settled. You’d be smart to take her to lunch one day soon.”

  “I’ll do that.” Allison got up and left Stone’s office.

  36

  Kelli Keane got out of a taxi a couple of doors down the street from Stone Barrington’s house, and stood opposite, stamping her feet in her boots and wrapping her long coat around her legs, trying to keep warm. It was seven a.m., and she was just going to wait until the kid went to school.

  She was fortunate that Peter left the house only a few minutes later and walked up to Third Avenue, while Kelli kept pace with him on the opposite side of the street. He waited for a bus while she hailed a cab and got in. “Just wait here until the bus comes,” she told the driver, “and when it does, follow it and don’t get ahead of it.”

  “Follow a bus?” the driver said. “Whatever happened to follow that car?”

  “Times are hard,” Kelli replied. “More people are taking the bus.”

  The bus arrived, Peter got aboard, and the two vehicles moved in tandem up Third Avenue. Finally Peter got off and walked toward Second Avenue, and Kelli told the driver to turn right and stop. She watched as Peter ran up the steps of a large building and disappeared inside.

  “Go down to that building and stop,” she said to the driver, who did so. “What’s the name of this place?” she asked.

  “Knickerbocker Hall,” the driver replied. “It’s chiseled in stone over the front door.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She gave him the address of the Post.

  “You work at the Post? I thought you were a private eye,” the driver said.

  “You’re a romantic, aren’t you?”

  “Sure; you want a demonstration?”

  “Just drive.”

  Peter walked upstairs in the nearly empty building. It was only seven-thirty. As he was about to turn into the film department, he heard piano music coming from the opposite direction. He turned right instead of left, into the music department, and the music got louder. Like a cross between Chopin and Rachmaninoff, he thought, if that was possible. He looked through a window in a door marked “Recital Hall” and saw a very pretty girl seated at a nine-foot grand piano, playing with enthusiasm and precision. He pushed open the door, tiptoed in, and took a seat at the rear of the little hall.

  She finished the piece with a flourish and, without looking up from the keyboard, said, “Come on down front; you’re bothering me way back there.”

  Peter walked down and took a seat in the front row, only a few feet from where she sat.

  She began to play again, this time in a jazz-inflected style. Peter thought he heard the left hand of Errol Garner and, in the right hand, traces of Nat Cole. She finished, and he said, “I don’t recognize that.”

  “I’m just improvising,” she said.

  “The first piece, too?”

  “Yes. I’ve never seen you here before. Who are you?”

  “I’m Peter Barrington. I’m in the film school.”

  “I’m Hattie Patrick,” she said, leaning over the lip of the little stage and offering her hand.

  Peter thought she was even more beautiful close up.

  “Are you new here?”

  “Yes, I just started this term.”

  “Where were you in school before?”

  “In Virginia. I moved to New York just before Christmas. I live in Turtle Bay. Do you know it?”

  �
�Yes. I once saw it from a tall building on Third Avenue. The interior garden looks very inviting,” she said.

  “I’ll give you a tour of the gardens sometime.”

  “I think we should wait until spring for that; everything’s dead now.”

  “Do you compose or just improvise?”

  “Composition is what I’m studying at Knickerbocker,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I’ve made a film, which is nearly finished, but I don’t have a score. Would you like to try writing it?”

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “I’m eighteen,” he said. “How old are you?”

  “I’ll be eighteen on Saturday,” she replied. “You talk like someone a lot older, no slang.”

  “It’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” Peter said. “So do you.”

  She laughed. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard that, either.”

  “If you’re interested, I’ll take you to a birthday lunch on Saturday and then screen the film for you.”

  “Screen it where?”

  “At my house. Don’t worry, my dad will be there to chaperone us.”

  She looked at him. “I’m not worried,” she said. “I’d like that, but could I see the film before then? That way I might have some ideas about the score to talk about.”

  Peter took the screenplay and DVD from his leather envelope and handed it to her. “It looks best on Blu-ray.”

  “I’ve got Blu-ray in my room. I’ll watch it tonight. What’s it about?”

  “You’ll know tonight. Where do you live?”

  “At Park and Sixty-third Street.”

  “Do you know the Brasserie restaurant in the basement of the Seagram Building, entrance on Fifty-third?”

  “Yes, I’ve been there.”

  “May we meet at the Brasserie at twelve-thirty on Saturday?”

  “Yes, that will be fine. You said your dad will be at the house. How about your mother?”

  “She’s back in Virginia for a couple of weeks,” Peter replied, “moving us into a new house.”

  “Are you going to live there?”

  “Only part-time. New York is home, now.”