30
Stone started to book
a table at Spago Beverly Hills, but then thought better of it. He’s
already had dinner there once this trip, and with Carolyn Blaine,
Prince’s assistant. Instead, he booked a table at Vincenzo, an
Italian restaurant he’d heard good things about.
As he pulled out of
the Calder driveway, he noticed a car parked up the street—unusual,
because people didn’t usually park on the street in Bel-Air; they
had plenty of room inside their gates. As he drove away he saw the
car move out, too, staying well behind him, headlights off in the
dusk. He noticed that his own headlights, on the auto setting, had
come on of their own volition.
They chatted idly as
they drove, with Stone keeping an eye on the car in the rearview
mirror, and a few minutes later Stone pulled up in front of the
restaurant. The parking valet opened his door for him, and Stone
came up with a fifty-dollar bill. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep
my car parked on the street, right under that lamp ahead. There are
some valuable items aboard, and I’d hate to have the car broken
into.”
“Of course, sir,” the
young man said, and from inside the restaurant, Stone watched as
the car was pulled forward a few yards and parked under the street
lamp.
They were given a
good table, in spite of not being regulars, and Stone was able to
see his car.
“What’s so valuable
in your rental car?” Arrington asked.
“Nothing, really. I
just don’t want to make it easy for anyone to tamper with
it.”
“You’re still
concerned about my safety?” she asked.
“You’re perfectly
safe,” he said, then slapped his forehead. “A car followed us here,
and I was concerned about it. I forgot that Mike Freeman still has
his security people watching you. That’s who’s in the
car.”
She laughed. “Spooked
by your own people?”
“I’m afraid
so.”
They had a drink and
ordered dinner. “You know, Stone,” Arrington said, “when I last saw
you, in Maine, I pretty much said that we shouldn’t see each other
anymore.”
“I
remember.”
“I was hasty, I’m
afraid. Of course, you’re not going to come and live in Virginia,
and I’m not going to live in New York anymore, but there’s no
reason why we can’t get together now and then.”
“I’m glad you think
so,” he replied.
“I was serious when I
said that I want you to get to know Peter. If something happened to
me and you became his guardian, I’d like him to already know
you.”
“Nothing’s going to
happen to you.”
“Now, be realistic. I
can get sick and die just like anybody else, or I could walk in
front of a passing car. I’m not ill, and I’m careful, but you know
what I mean.”
“I know what you
mean,” he replied. “Why don’t you bring Peter to New York for a few
days, when he’s on his holidays? You can both stay with
me.”
“Then I’d have to
sneak into your bedroom every night, wouldn’t I?”
“One of us would have
to do the same thing in Virginia, but it would be good if he knew
that we had more than a passing friendship.”
“I’ll give that some
thought,” she said.
They dined well and
returned to the house, the car still tailing them. They were
greeted inside the house by Mike’s inside man, who took Stone aside
when Arrington had gone to her room.
“I don’t want to
trouble you, Mr. Barrington,” the man said, “but we had a little
incident after you left for dinner.”
“Is something
wrong?”
“I’m not sure; we had
an alert from the security system, which showed a possible breach
of the perimeter fence. We checked it out and found
nothing.”
“Why don’t we take a
walk around the perimeter?” Stone said.
The man spoke into a
microphone dangling from his sleeve into the palm of his hand, and
another man appeared. “All right, let’s go,” he said, producing a
small flashlight and borrowing another from his colleague for
Stone.
They walked down the
driveway to the front gate, where another operative stepped from
the shadows and checked them out.
“By the way,” Stone
said, “thanks for the following car when we went to dinner. At
first I thought someone was up to no good.”
The man stopped in
the driveway. “Following car? We don’t have anyone in a car, just
inside the fence, as Mr. Freeman directed.”
“Follow me,” Stone
said, “and don’t wave your flashlight around.” He made his way
along the wrought-iron fence to a point opposite where the car had
been parked earlier, then peeked through the shrubbery. “There’s
the car,” he said, “but we can’t get at him through this fence, and
I don’t have a way to open the front gate. Let’s just give him a
scare, and maybe we can get his license plate number. Get ready
with your flashlight.”
“All right,” the man
said, stepping forward.
The two of them
parted the hedge, and on Stone’s signal, hit the car with both of
their flashlights. A startled, wide-eyed man turned toward the
light, then started his car and drove away at high speed.
“Fortyish, graying hair, sideburns,” Stone said.
“Did you get the
plate number?” the security man asked.
“No, the license
plate light was out—deliberately, I’m sure.”
“Plain vanilla
sedan,” the man said. “I didn’t even get a make.”
“Maybe we’ve scared
him off for the night,” Stone said. “Come on, let’s walk the rest
of the perimeter.”
They trudged on,
lighting their way with the flashlights. As they were passing a
point behind the guesthouse, the security man said, “Wait.” He
pointed his flashlight at the top of the fence and spotlighted
something hanging on one of the sharp spires that rose from the
wrought iron barrier. “There.” He parted the hedge, pulled himself
up on a crossbar, and retrieved the object. “Piece of blue cloth,”
the man said, turning his light on it.
“Cotton,” Stone said.
“Maybe from a shirttail.” Then, from behind them a shot fractured
the silence. “Come on!” Stone said, drawing the pistol from his
belt.
They both ran, flat
out, toward the house. Stone opened the rear door and started to
run down the central hallway. Then they saw a man crumpled on the
floor. The other security man stepped from the living room into the
hallway, weapon drawn.
“I hit him,” he said,
keeping his gun on the inert figure. The first security man bent
down, turned the man over, and kicked away a silenced,
small-caliber pistol. He felt for a pulse at the neck. “Nothing,”
he said. “He’s dead.”
The man was
mid-thirties, dark hair, dressed in a tail-out dark shirt, jeans,
and sneakers. The bullet had exited his chest near the
heart.
Stone bent and found
where his shirttail was torn, then went through the man’s pockets.
“Nothing,” he said, “absolutely nothing—not a cent, not a wallet,
nothing.”
“Get the fingerprint
scanner from my car,” one security man said to the other. “We’ll
get his prints before the cops get here. Then you can call
nine-one-one.”
Arrington came out of
a door across the hall and stopped.
“Oh, my God,” she
said.
Stone led her back to
her bedroom. “Everything’s all right,” he said. “You’re perfectly
safe.”
“I wasn’t for a
while, though, was I?” she asked.
Stone didn’t answer,
just hugged her.