9
Stone took a sip of
his iced tea. It was flavored with tropical fruit and delicious.
“I’d like to know why you want to buy Centurion Studios,” he
said.
“I have no interest
in Centurion,” Prince replied, “only its land. From my time in Los
Angeles I have observed that making a profit from the production of
motion pictures is a very iffy way to invest one’s money. One can
make money from the movies, of course, but a better way to do it is
to let the studios and the independent producers flail about
judging scripts and putting together packages of directors and
stars, then, when the projects are ready to go, deciding which ones
to back. I have done very well that way.”
“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.