Stone Barrington 36 - Scandalous Behavior (11 page)

“Maybe she’d like to have Susan take a look at the house while she’s in town.”

“I expect she would.”

“Then I’ll set that up, too.”

17

T
hat evening they met at the Four Seasons for dinner. Stone chose the menu, and they dined very well indeed. Afterward, Billy Barnett took Stone aside.

“I don’t know how you managed to get the boys out of the country so quickly, but I’m glad you did.”

“Let’s just say that their interests and mine coincided. Have them get packed before the screening, so that they can leave the theater and go straight to Teterboro for the flight. You’ll be landing on my property and clearing customs there, too. There will be some Strategic Services people on board, as well, who will be continuing on to London with ground transportation. The airplane will continue on to Paris and overnight there, then fly some other Strategic Services people back to New York.”

“Sounds like a large airplane.”

“It’s a Gulfstream 650.”

“How long is your landing strip?”

“Seven thousand feet. It was an RAF base during World War Two.”

“That should handle just about anything.”

“Have you heard anything more about the Chosen Few?”

“I found out how they’re financing themselves. Dr. Don has written a series of books based on conspiracy theories about government encroachment on individual rights.”

“Why have I not seen them advertised?”

“Because they’re sold only on the Chosen Few website. He gets thirty to forty bucks a book and sells tens of thousands around the country. They make documentary films of the same nature, too, and sell them on DVDs. Dr. Don is bringing in millions a year, and he doesn’t have a lot of overhead. There’s no church, they rent venues for large meetings, and he only has enough staff to count the money. There are rumors that he has a large vault in his house and keeps most of the cash there.”

“Surely the FBI is looking at this guy.”

“Almost certainly, but they’ve never charged him with anything.”

“There must have been an investigation of the magazine writer’s death.”

“By the LAPD, but no charges were ever brought for lack of evidence.”

—

T
he Friday-night screening was a huge success. The invited audience gave it a standing ovation, and Peter and Ben took a bow. Stone hustled them to their cars as quickly as he could. He hugged Peter and Ben. “Have a good flight and call me after you’re at the house. The staff will meet you at the airplane and take good care of you. You’ll go through customs and immigration at the property.”

The boys and their girlfriends and the Barnetts were driven away.

—

S
tone’s and Dino’s cars were waiting. “Dino,” Stone said, “you know the director of the FBI, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Why don’t you give him a call and see if you can find out what, if anything, they have on Dr. Don and his Chosen Few?”

“I’ll call him at home this weekend,” Dino said. “I don’t want to make an official inquiry.”

“Okay. You sure you don’t want to go to England next weekend?”

“I’d love to, I really would, but I’m going to have the press on my ass if I keep trying to keep up with you.”

“I’m glad Viv can go.”

“So am I—she can use some time off.”

—

S
tone and Susan continued home. Upstairs, he turned on CNN, having missed the regular evening news.

“A new film opened at twelve hundred theaters across the nation tonight called
Hell’s Bells
. Audiences at two of them got more than they had bargained for. There were explosions at theaters in Santa Monica, California, and Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, shortly after the film began. Police in both cities said there were no serious casualties, that the explosions had been caused by the stun grenades police use to storm crime scenes. One Idaho woman was taken to a hospital for cuts and bruises and is being kept overnight for observation. Others at both theaters were treated on-site by EMTs and released.”

“Oh, God,” Stone said, “it’s started.” He switched on his iPhone, went to a flight-tracking app, and entered the tail number of the Strategic Services G650. The airplane was halfway to Newfoundland. “I’m glad they’re on their way.”

The phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Hello?”

“Hi, Dad.”

“Peter? I just checked on your flight—you’re halfway to Newfoundland.”

“Right, I see that on the flight progress screen. This is some airplane.”

“It certainly is.”

“We also get CNN. Have you heard what happened at two of our theaters?”

“I just saw it. That’s terrible news.”

“I’m glad no one was seriously hurt.”

“So am I.”

“Ben thinks the publicity will help us, rather than hurt us.”

“I suppose it could. I’m glad you’re not here to get hounded by the media. You’d be wise to keep your destination quiet and let Centurion’s PR people handle the press response.”

“You don’t think I should issue a statement?”

“No, I don’t. Just enjoy yourself.”

“I’m sure we will. I liked Susan. I hope you’ll see a lot more of her.”

“I think you can count on that.”

“Good night, then.”

“Get some sleep and arrive rested.” Stone hung up.

18

S
tone woke to find an outstanding review of
Hell’s Bells
in the
New York Times
. He checked his watch: it was midday in England, and Peter hadn’t called yet. He was relieved when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Dad. We made it in good order. Is this too early to call?”

“It’s perfect. Want to hear something nice?”

“Sure.”

Stone read him a few paragraphs of the review. “I’ll fax you the whole thing when I get downstairs.”

“Thanks, it’s too early to hear from L.A., and it’s Saturday. I’ll check with them later. Dad, this house is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and it’s in perfect condition.”

“That’s because it’s just gone through a year-long renovation, top to bottom, all Susan’s work.”

“She’s an incredible designer.”

“Does it work for your idea for a film?”

“It certainly does.”

“Is it a period piece?”

“Between the world wars. The phones and the TVs are all we’d have to change.”

“The TVs are concealed at the press of a button, but you’re right about the phones.”

“Do you think Susan would like to be our production designer?”

“I’ll ask her. By the way, the previous owner, Sir Charles Bourne, is still living on the place, in the largest of the cottages. He’s in Paris on his honeymoon, but he should be back soon. I’ve let him know that you’re there, so when you see him introduce yourselves. Also, there are horses, if you feel like riding. Just tell the butler, Geoffrey, and he’ll speak to the stable hands.”

“I think we’re going to be very happy here.”

“Well, get to it, then, and give me a call if you have any questions, or see Major Bugg, who runs the place from his basement office. I’ve got two cars there, too. Use them.” Stone hung up and Susan brought breakfast from the dumbwaiter.

“I wish I’d thought of a dumbwaiter for Windward Hall,” she said. “It’s such a good idea.”

“Make a note of that for our next renovation, in about forty
years. By the way, Peter loves the house. He told me to tell you, and to ask you if you’d consider being the production designer for the film he wants to shoot there.”

Susan laughed. “Tell him I’ll consider it.”

He finished breakfast and went back to the
Times.
There was a good-sized piece on the entertainment page about the explosions in Santa Monica and Coeur d’Alene, and Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun was interviewed. “I don’t know why anyone would think we would be involved in such a thing,” he said, “even if the movie is a scurrilous piece of trash, full of lies and distortions.”

Stone went downstairs and faxed Peter the
Times
review. The phone rang.

“Hi, it’s Eggers. It’s Saturday, would you and Susan like to drive up to Connecticut with me? I’ve got all the closing documents, so we can take care of that.”

“Why don’t we meet you there? We can have lunch at the Mayflower Inn.”

“Fine, I’ll book us in. Shall we meet there at one o’clock?”

“Sounds good.” He hung up and went to find Susan. She was sitting at her dressing table working on her laptop.

“I’m looking at the beta version of my design program,” she said.

“Would you like to try it out today on a charming New England house?”

“That sounds like fun.”

“We’ll leave here at eleven then, and bring an overnight bag, in case we decide to stay the night.”

His phone rang. “Stone Barrington.”

“Mr. Barrington, this is Dick Myers of the Associated Press. May I speak to your son, Peter?”

“I’m sorry, but Peter is on vacation, and he won’t be available for interviews until he returns. Where are you calling from?”

“Chicago. May I know where he is? I just need to check a couple of facts, before we run our piece.”

Stone looked at the caller ID; it was from an L.A. number, and he jotted it down. “I’m afraid that’s classified. He’s at a very secluded resort.”

“Out West, is he?”

“I didn’t say that. Out of the country would be more accurate. Goodbye.”

“Mr. Barrington, it really is very important—to him as well as to me—to get in touch with him. I promise I won’t invade his privacy.”

“You want to invade his privacy to tell him you won’t invade his privacy?”

“It’s just fact-checking, really.”

“Try him at his office in a couple of months.” The man was still talking when he hung up. “Yeah, sure, you’re from the AP,” he said aloud.

—

A
t eleven, Stone put their bags into the Blaise, the French sports car that his friend Marcel duBois manufactured near Paris.

“I’ve read about these,” Susan said, “and I’ve seen a couple in London, but I’ve never ridden in one.”

“Then fasten your seat belt,” Stone said before he pulled out of the garage and headed for the West Side Highway and the Sawmill River Parkway beyond. The sun was out and the trees were just starting to bud. They listened to classical music on the satellite radio and chatted.

Then, for the second or third time, Stone noticed a black SUV a couple of cars back that kept pulling into the left lane, as if to get a look at him.

“Something wrong?” Susan asked. “You keep checking your rearview mirror.”

“Not a thing,” Stone said, and picked up the pace. The SUV stuck with him.

—

T
hey arrived at the Mayflower Inn and went in for lunch. “Excuse me a moment,” he said to Susan. He went to the front desk.

“Hello, Mr. Barrington,” the clerk said.

“Good afternoon. My son, Peter, isn’t staying here, but I’d like to know if anyone inquires for him.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be in the restaurant. If someone asks for him, don’t tell the person he isn’t registered, but please send someone to get me.”

“As you wish.”

Stone rejoined Susan, and they went into the dining room,
where Bill and Margo Eggers were waiting for them. Bill’s wives kept getting younger, he thought. Introductions were made and lunch ordered.

They were between courses when a young man came to the table. “Excuse me, Mr. Barrington,” he said, “but there’s a man at the front desk asking for Peter Barrington.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. He excused himself and left the dining room. A beefy man of about forty was waiting at the desk. “Good afternoon. My name is Barrington. Come with me,” Stone said, leading the way, “and we’ll find some privacy.” He led the man into the little library off the main lobby. “Now,” he said, “who are you?”

“Uh . . .” the man began, then stopped. “Never you mind who I am.”

“Let’s see some ID.”

“I don’t have to show you nothing.”