Stuart Woods - Bel-Air dead

“I understand your point of view,” Stone said, “but without organizations like Centurion and the producers they have as partners, your choice of films in which to invest would be extremely limited.”

“In that event, I can always invest in something else,” Prince said. “I have no emotional involvement in motion pictures; I rarely even see one. I like investing in hotels, however. I’ve put together a group of some of the finest in cities across the country, and they make money. One makes more money, though, if one develops them, rather than paying a premium for the creations of someone else. The Centurion property will give me the kind of acreage to put a sumptuous hotel in a park, with enough land left over to develop offices and residences at the other end.”

“How many of the acres would you devote to the hotel?” Stone asked.

“Perhaps only a dozen or fifteen,” Prince replied. “There isn’t enough acreage for a golf course-you need a couple of hundred for that-but I might get a par-three, nine-hole course in. That’s about all a traveling businessman has time for anyway.”

Stone looked around the room. “Why don’t you have a model of what you want to build?” he asked.

Prince shrugged. “I don’t have any trouble visualizing what I want, and since I’m using my own money, or that of my hedge fund, I don’t need to convince people with no imagination to back me.”

“Surely, you must have architect’s plans.”

“Nothing I’d care to show you,” Prince replied.

“You understand that if Mrs. Calder decides not to sell you her shares, you won’t get the property?”

Prince allowed himself a small smile. “I don’t really think that’s going to be a problem,” he said.

Stone was stunned. This sort of confidence he had not expected, and there was nowhere for this conversation to go until he knew why Prince was not worried. He took another sip of his iced tea and set the glass on its coaster. “Well, I won’t trouble you further, Mr. Prince,” he said, rising and offering his hand.

“Thank you for seeing me on no notice.”

Prince shook Stone’s hand. “Any time at all,” he replied. “Carolyn, would you please escort Mr. Barrington to the elevator?”

“Oh, I wonder if I might call a taxi,” Stone said. “A friend dropped me here and took my car.”

“Carolyn, call down for my car and have Mr. Barrington delivered to…” He raised his eyebrows.

“Bel-Air,” Stone said. “That’s very kind of you.”

“It just sits in the garage until I need it,” Prince said, “and I won’t need it until this evening. If you have any shopping to do or other calls to make, please keep the car until seven, if you like.”

“Thank you again,” Stone said, then followed the gorgeous Carolyn out of the office and to the elevator. She stopped there.

“It will be only a moment,” she said. “Do you have friends in L.A., Mr. Barrington?” she asked.

“A few.”

“Would you like to have dinner with me while you’re here?”

“That would be very pleasant,” Stone replied, surprised, then he thought about it for a second. “Tell me,” he said, “will this dinner be tax-deductible for Mr. Prince?”

She gave a little laugh. “No, this isn’t business, just pleasure, and neither Mr. Prince nor I will be paying.” She handed him a card. “This is my address; eight o’clock tonight?”

The elevator arrived, and Stone stepped aboard. “Book us into your favorite restaurant,” he said, then the doors closed and Stone left his stomach on a high floor as the car plummeted to the lobby.

He walked out of the skyscraper to find a bright, silver Bentley Mulsanne awaiting him. A man with a shaved head in a black suit and tie held the door open for him. The car had only recently been introduced and Stone hadn’t seen one yet, so he had a good look around it before he got in.

The driver slid into the front seat and closed his door, sealing out all sound from Wilshire Boulevard. “Where may I take you, Mr. Barrington?” he asked.

Stone gave him the address of the Bel-Air house.

“No shopping?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have time for shopping,” Stone replied. “How do you like the car?”

“It’s superb,” the man replied. “Mr. Prince had an Arnage before, but this one is a considerable improvement in every way.”

Stone electrically adjusted his seat and settled in for the ride. “What else does Mr. Prince drive?” he asked.

“He has an Aston-Martin DBS for the occasions when he drives himself,” the man replied.

“He has good taste in cars,” Stone said.

“In everything,” the man replied.

As they approached the house, Stone gave the driver the code for the gate, and he was dropped at the front door. He thanked the driver and walked into the house, which seemed deserted, although he knew that Manolo was somewhere nearby. Dino was not back yet, and Stone changed into a swimsuit and took a plunge in the large pool. He swam a few laps, then put on a robe, and settled into a chaise longue, just as his phone buzzed.

“Hello?”

“It’s Eggers,” he said.

“Good afternoon,” Stone replied. “You still at the office?”

“I never get out of here before seven,” Eggers said.

“Do you have some news for me?”

“Do I! Rex Champion is close to bankruptcy. He’s been selling off his breeding stock piecemeal to create enough cash flow to keep afloat until he can sell. And every time he sells another Derby winner, the value of the business drops.”

“That’s very interesting,” Stone said. “Have you formed an opinion as to what the whole kaboodle might be worth?”

“Thirty-five million, tops,” Eggers said. “That price would allow Rex to pay his debts and walk away free and clear, but I don’t think he would have much left over. If Arrington wants to be generous, she could offer him thirty-eight million. In two or three years, if the economy bounces back and she can buy some good breeding stock, it could be worth half again as much.”

“So you think it’s a good investment for her?”

“If I didn’t have to run this law firm, I’d put together some investors and buy it myself,” Eggers said.

Dino appeared from the direction of the house, shucked off his coat, tossed his tie aside, and sat down. Manolo was right behind him with two tall drinks on a silver tray.

“Gotta run,” Stone said. “Let me know if anything new comes up.”

“Arrington is going to have to move pretty quickly to get the place before word gets out and the buzzards start circling,” Eggers said. “Bye.” He hung up.

Stone picked up his drink from where Manolo had set it, raised his glass to Dino, and took a gulp. “Welcome back,” he said. “Did you learn anything scintillating?”

Dino took a similar swig and sighed. “Jennifer Harris died from something like an ice pick driven into her brain from the back of the neck, above the hairline,” he said, pointing to his own neck. “Whoever did it was cool enough to wait for the blood to stop leaking before he placed her head on the pillow, then he filled the tiny wound with spirit gum, so it wouldn’t drain further.”

“What’s spirit gum?” Stone asked.

“It’s a thick, gummy substance that actors use to create makeup, and undertakers use to fill indentations in a corpse. The ME might have overlooked the wound, since he wasn’t expecting it, if Rivera hadn’t asked him to be thorough.”

“Well, we’re in a whole new ball game, I think,” Stone said.

Dino looked at Stone. “You look worried.”

“I guess I am,” Stone said.

“Something to do with Mr. Prince?”

“Yes,” Stone said.