Bel-Air Dead (24 page)

Stone saw a light go on on Woolich’s phone, and after a moment, the light began to blink.

Woolich returned. “Mr. Prince would like to speak with you,” he said. He indicated that Stone should come around the desk. “Just press the flashing button,” he said.

Stone pressed the button. “Good morning, Terry,” he said.

“Good morning, Stone. May I take this request for a wire transfer as an indication that your client has accepted my offer?”

“You may.”

“Do you have the signed contract with you?”

“I do.”

“I’ll send someone down for it immediately, then I’ll speak with Mr. Woolich again.” He hung up.

Stone resumed his seat, and Woolich resumed his.

“Lovely day,” the banker said.

“Every day out here seems to be a lovely day.”

“Ah, well, sunny California,” Woolich replied.

There was a knock at the door, and Carolyn Blaine walked in. “Good morning, Stone,” she said.

“Good morning,” Stone replied, handing her one copy of the sales agreement. “Duly witnessed by a member of the New York Police Department.”

She looked at it, checked the signatures, and smiled broadly. “Congratulations!” she said.

“And to you. I’m sure that running the project will be a lot of fun for you.”

“Oh, yes.” She produced a cell phone and pressed a speed dial number. “All is in order,” she said. She listened, then handed the phone to Woolich.

“Yes, Mr. Prince? As you wish.” He handed the phone back to Carolyn. “Thank you, Ms. Blaine.” He sat down again, and Carolyn left the room.

“Please send the wire to the attention of William Eggers, Managing Partner.”

“Of course.” Woolich turned to his computer, pulled up a form and began to type, entering the numbers Stone had given him. “Here goes,” he said, pressing the send key with a flourish. “Done.” He pressed a couple more keys and the printer beside his desk spat out a sheet of paper. Woolich signed it, then handed it to Stone. “The transfer is confirmed; the funds are in your trust account.”

Stone read the confirmation, then stood up. “Mr. Woolich, it has been a pleasure doing business with you,” he said. The two men shook hands, and Stone left the bank, whistling a merry tune.

Stone arrived at the house and found Arrington, in a bathing suit now, lying on a chaise beside the pool. He walked over, kissed her, and handed her the wire transfer receipt. “You are officially twenty-five million dollars richer,” he said.

“How nice,” she replied. She patted the chaise next to her. “Sit for a moment.”

Stone did so.

“Rick Barron called ten minutes ago. He said that Jack Schmeltzer called him this morning and told him that he would be voting with Prince this afternoon.”

That knocked the wind out of Stone. “That’s bad news,” he said. “What with Mrs. Grosvenor buying the Jennifer Harris shares and taking charge of Jim Long’s, we are, to put it as gracefully as I can manage, fucked.”

“That seems so,” Arrington said, “but Rick, bless his heart, seems to remain just slightly optimistic.”

“Did he say why?”

“No. He just said he will see us at the meeting at two o’clock on stage four.”

“Well,” Stone said, sighing, “let’s hope that Rick’s and Dino’s optimism is not misplaced.”

52

Stone was tying a necktie in anticipation of the shareholders’ meeting when the phone in his room rang. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Ed Eagle.”

“Afternoon, Ed.”

“I have some interesting news regarding Dolly Parks/Carolyn Blaine.”

“Tell me.”

“I’ve had a phone call from the Santa Fe Police Department, from the detective in charge of the investigation into the murder of the wife of my client, Tip Hanks.”

“Something new?”

“Something old, actually. During the investigation a lipstick smear was found on a pillowcase in Mrs. Hanks’s bedroom. It wasn’t thought to be possible to extract a DNA sample from it at the time, but newer technology has prevailed, and the police have a fully constituted sample. All that remains now is to have Ms. Blaine tested for it.”

“That’s good news, Ed.”

“A problem, though; since there is no existing evidence that Ms. Blaine is Ms. Parks, there is no probable cause for the police to request a warrant requiring her to give a sample for testing.”

“That is a problem, isn’t it?”

“It is, unless you can help.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“Do you think there is some way you might be able to get a sample of her DNA?”

“What, exactly, did you have in mind, Ed?”

“I don’t know; get her into the sack and get a swab, I guess.”

“Aren’t you forgetting that Ms. Blaine, if she is Ms. Parks, is a lesbian?”

“More likely bisexual,” Eagle said, “in that she slept with Mr. Hanks as well as Mrs. Hanks.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Ed; she hasn’t shown the slightest interest in sex with me, and to tell you the truth, I have no interest in sex with her.”

“Force yourself,” Eagle said.

Stone laughed. “There’s got to be another way.”

“All right, find another way.”

“Ed, all I can tell you is that, should I have an opportunity to snag some small part of her precious bodily fluids, I will do so.”

“I guess I can’t ask any more than that,” Eagle said.

“You have already done so.”

“My apologies.”

“No apology necessary,” Stone said.

“Your shareholders’ meeting is today, isn’t it?”

“It is, but I’m afraid our side has come up short in the quest to deny Mr. Prince his opportunity to raze much of the studio, in favor of a hotel.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“On the bright side, I did bank twenty-five million dollars of his money this morning—a down payment on his purchase of Arrington Calder’s Bel-Air property.”

“So, it’s a clean sweep for Mr. Prince, is it?”

“Looks like it. I had hoped to see him laid low, but a quarter of a billion dollars for the Bel-Air property is a nice consolation prize.”

“We should all be so consoled.”

“Yes, we should. Gotta run, Ed.”

“Keep in touch; I’m relying on you.”

“Oh, the pressure!” Stone said, and hung up.

The phone rang again almost immediately. “Hello?”

“It’s Eggers.”

“Good day, Bill; where are you?”

“Still in Seattle. I wanted you to know I’ve been informed that we received Mr. Prince’s twenty-five million dollars into our trust account this morning. It has already been transferred to Arrington’s Chase accounts. Perhaps she should give her banker some instructions on how to invest it; you don’t want to lose a day’s interest on that kind of balance.”

“Good point, Bill.”

“And don’t forget to pay the taxes.”

“Will do.”

“When is your meeting?”

“At two, L.A. time.”

“Good luck.”

“I’m afraid we’re all out of that, but thanks.”

“You don’t have the votes?”

“Only forty-eight percent, or thereabouts.”

“That’s sad.”

“Yes, it is. Gotta run, Bill; thanks for the call.”

Arrington and Dino were chatting on the patio when Stone got there.

“Hi,” Arrington said. “Mike Freeman is joining us for lunch.”

“Good,” Stone replied. Mike arrived a moment later, and they sat down to eat.

Everyone was uncharacteristically quiet.

“Such a nice day,” Dino said.

“Ever the conversationalist, Dino,” Stone replied.

“I thought somebody ought to say something.”

Things got quiet again.

“Arrington,” Mike said, “would you mind if I come to the shareholders’ meeting with you?”

“I’d be delighted to have you, Mike. Why are you interested?” Mike looked a little sheepish. “Well, I’ve never seen the inside of a movie studio,” he said.

Everybody laughed, and the conversation improved after that.

53

Manolo got out the Bentley, and the four of them piled in, Stone driving.

“I have the terrible feeling that we are about to witness bad history,” Arrington said. “Like standing on an Oahu hilltop and watching Pearl Harbor get bombed.”

“I have exactly the same feeling,” Stone said. “Dino, are you still all up about this?”

“My bones tell me it’s going to be a good day,” Dino said.

“Well, if it turns out not to be, we’re going to stand you against a wall and shoot you.”

Everybody laughed a nervous laugh.

They drove down into Beverly Hills and on toward the Centurion lot. They passed an empty bus going the other way with a banner stretching from one end to the other, saying SAVE CENTURION STUDIOS FROM THE PHILISTINES!!!

“It seems we have support from somebody,” Stone said. “I wonder who?”

“Movie lovers,” Dino replied.

As they approached the main gate to the studio, they saw police cars with lights flashing, and a couple of hundred people were gathered, many carrying homemade signs exhorting shareholders to vote with the studio. There were two television vans parked near the gate with satellite dishes pointed skyward, and reporters and cameras attached to them by long cables.

“I hadn’t expected this,” Arrington said from the front passenger seat.

“Neither had I,” Stone said.

“How the hell did they even know about this meeting?” Dino asked.

“I suppose it must have been in the papers,” Mike said, “but I swear, this looks like something put together by a publicist or a political campaign manager.”

A young woman with big hair rapped on Arrington’s window with a microphone, shouting her name.

Arrington pressed the button and the window slid down. The previous silence was replaced by disorderly chanting. “Yes?” she said to the reporter.

“Mrs. Calder,” the reporter said, “how would your husband feel about this meeting today, if he were here?”

“He would be totally opposed to voting for the sale, as am I, and I will be voting all the shares he accumulated over his lifetime
against
the sale.” She raised the window.

Stone finally got the car to the guard at the gate. “Mrs. Calder’s car,” he said, and was rewarded with a security pass placed on the dashboard. He drove on. “That was a very good statement to the press, Arrington,” he said. “Have you been rehearsing?”

“Rick asked me to have something ready to say,” she replied. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“The studio should hire you as its spokesperson,” he said. “Which way is stage four?”

“Straight ahead, then right, then left,” Arrington said. “I used to pick up Vance after work when he was shooting there.”

Stone followed directions until he saw a large sign proclaiming the stage number. Perhaps a better identifier of the stage was the large group of golf carts parked along the road between the stages, indicating that most of the people attending the meeting worked on the lot. There were only two cars parked on the road, the Rolls belonging to Mrs. Charles Grosvenor and the Bentley Mulsanne of Terrence Prince. Stone parked near them.

“Let’s not go in right away,” Arrington said. “I’m sure they’ve reserved seats for us, so let’s make an entrance.”

“Fine by me,” Stone said. “Dino, Mike, you want to make an entrance?”

“Sure,” Mike replied.

“Damn straight,” Dino said. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

More golf carts arrived and were parked carelessly along the road.

“I wonder how they find their own carts when they come back?” Arrington asked. “They’re all identical.”

“Then it doesn’t matter which one they take, does it?” Stone pointed out.

“I guess not.”

Others arrived on foot and made their way through the large door, which was propped open. There was an unlighted red bulb above the door with a sign saying DO NOT ENTER WHEN RED LIGHT IS LIT.

“It’s oddly quiet,” Mike said.

“Soundstages are soundproof,” Arrington explained. “After that door is closed, a freight train could pass, and you wouldn’t hear it from inside.” She sighed. “Vance’s funeral was held on this stage,” she said. “The studio didn’t have an auditorium big enough.”

Stone remembered the elaborate service in a cathedral set on the stage, complete with stained glass windows and a boys’ choir. He also remembered that, because of a packing malfunction, he had been wearing a suit owned by the corpse. “How many shareholders are there?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” Arrington replied. “Forty or fifty, I think.”

“Then why are they holding the meeting in a building big enough for a Busby Berkeley dance number?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Rick must have his reasons.”

No one had arrived for a minute or two. “Are you ready for your entrance?” he asked, checking his watch. It was ten minutes past two.

“Why not?” Arrington replied.

Dino jumped out and held the door for her. They formed a very short column of twos and entered the soundstage.

Stone had expected to see the audience at once, but instead, a broad, carpeted path led toward the interior, and on either side were larger-than-life blowups of stills from Centurion Studios over the past decades. It was impossible to walk quickly by them; they continually stopped and commented on this photo or that.