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Authors: Stuart Woods
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There was a note from Arthur Steele, confirming his wish to paythe reward Stone had offered for the rescue of his stepdaughter, Hedy. “File this under ‘Thank God,’” he told Joan.
Shortly, Joan announced that Bill Eggers was on line one.
“Hello, Bill.”
“Did you have a good flight?”
“An excellent one. Did you like the house?”
“How soon can you get out?”
“As soon as I’ve accepted your offer.”
Bill made him one.
“Done. You can move in tomorrow.”
“We’ve already moved in,” Bill said. “I can’t get the wife to go back to the city.”
“Just pack up my clothes—there aren’t many—and drop them off here when you get back. I’ll get Herb Fisher to close the sale.”
“Nice doing business with you.”
“Tell me that when you get your first heating bill,” Stone replied. He hung up and went back to work.
—
T hey met in his study, where Fred had set a table before the fireplace, and he made her a martini and himself a bourbon.
“The house is lovely,” Susan said.
“Tell me what you would do to improve the place.”
“It’s perfect—I can’t think of a thing. Who was your designer?”
“I was, for better or worse. Of course, it didn’t get done overnight. I had years to get it right.”
“That’s always the best way. One of the reasons I’ve succeeded in my work is that I work hard to make it look as though someone has always lived there.”
“Tell me, what did Sir Charles’s renovation of Windward Hall come to?”
“My budget was two million pounds, but he kept adding things, so the final figure will be closer to three million.”
“God, I’m glad I didn’t have to do that.”
“You are a very fortunate buyer, and my guess is that you are, in general, a lucky man.”
“Sometimes I think so, sometimes not.”
“Tell me, who are these people we’re dining with tomorrow evening?”
“Dino Bacchetti and his wife, Vivian. Dino and I were partners when I was on the NYPD. Now he’s the police commissioner, which is the top job there. Viv was a detective who worked for him. She retired from the department to avoid the nepotism problem, and joined Strategic Services, a very large security company, where she has done well and risen in the ranks. She now runs their home office in New York and supervises international.”
“They’re going to think me very dull,” she said.
“Not a bit of it. You’ll be fast friends.”
“I hope so.”
14
W hen Stone came downstairs to go to work the following morning, there was a strange man sitting in the chair opposite his desk who stood up and offered his hand.
“Hello, Stone,” he said. “Billy Barnett.”
It took Stone a second to flip through the name change and Teddy Fay’s incredible facility with anonymity. “Hello, Billy,” he said. “What a nice surprise to see you.” His mind raced through the possible reasons for “Billy,” as he now was, to leave Los Angeles and come to New York. Stone poured him some coffee and bade him sit down. “What brings you to New York?” Something must be amiss with Peter, Stone’s son, he thought; he was not far wrong.
“I’m worried about Peter and Ben,” Billy said. Ben was Peter’s partner in the film business and he was also Dino’s son.
“What’s wrong?” Stone asked.
“Problems have arisen that are connected to Peter’s new film, Hell’s Bells .”
“This is the one about a violent fundamentalist sect operating out of some corner of L.A.?”
“Correct. His script was based on snippets of news stories he’d seen over the past couple of years, and he was intrigued by the idea of such a backward group living in a major American city. He invented the greater part of it, but the problem, it seems, is that what he invented is too close to the truth—or, at least, these people have come to believe it is.”
“Has he received threats?”
“Insinuations, mainly. They’re too smart to make direct threats. In the past, when
Shortly, Joan announced that Bill Eggers was on line one.
“Hello, Bill.”
“Did you have a good flight?”
“An excellent one. Did you like the house?”
“How soon can you get out?”
“As soon as I’ve accepted your offer.”
Bill made him one.
“Done. You can move in tomorrow.”
“We’ve already moved in,” Bill said. “I can’t get the wife to go back to the city.”
“Just pack up my clothes—there aren’t many—and drop them off here when you get back. I’ll get Herb Fisher to close the sale.”
“Nice doing business with you.”
“Tell me that when you get your first heating bill,” Stone replied. He hung up and went back to work.
—
T hey met in his study, where Fred had set a table before the fireplace, and he made her a martini and himself a bourbon.
“The house is lovely,” Susan said.
“Tell me what you would do to improve the place.”
“It’s perfect—I can’t think of a thing. Who was your designer?”
“I was, for better or worse. Of course, it didn’t get done overnight. I had years to get it right.”
“That’s always the best way. One of the reasons I’ve succeeded in my work is that I work hard to make it look as though someone has always lived there.”
“Tell me, what did Sir Charles’s renovation of Windward Hall come to?”
“My budget was two million pounds, but he kept adding things, so the final figure will be closer to three million.”
“God, I’m glad I didn’t have to do that.”
“You are a very fortunate buyer, and my guess is that you are, in general, a lucky man.”
“Sometimes I think so, sometimes not.”
“Tell me, who are these people we’re dining with tomorrow evening?”
“Dino Bacchetti and his wife, Vivian. Dino and I were partners when I was on the NYPD. Now he’s the police commissioner, which is the top job there. Viv was a detective who worked for him. She retired from the department to avoid the nepotism problem, and joined Strategic Services, a very large security company, where she has done well and risen in the ranks. She now runs their home office in New York and supervises international.”
“They’re going to think me very dull,” she said.
“Not a bit of it. You’ll be fast friends.”
“I hope so.”
14
W hen Stone came downstairs to go to work the following morning, there was a strange man sitting in the chair opposite his desk who stood up and offered his hand.
“Hello, Stone,” he said. “Billy Barnett.”
It took Stone a second to flip through the name change and Teddy Fay’s incredible facility with anonymity. “Hello, Billy,” he said. “What a nice surprise to see you.” His mind raced through the possible reasons for “Billy,” as he now was, to leave Los Angeles and come to New York. Stone poured him some coffee and bade him sit down. “What brings you to New York?” Something must be amiss with Peter, Stone’s son, he thought; he was not far wrong.
“I’m worried about Peter and Ben,” Billy said. Ben was Peter’s partner in the film business and he was also Dino’s son.
“What’s wrong?” Stone asked.
“Problems have arisen that are connected to Peter’s new film, Hell’s Bells .”
“This is the one about a violent fundamentalist sect operating out of some corner of L.A.?”
“Correct. His script was based on snippets of news stories he’d seen over the past couple of years, and he was intrigued by the idea of such a backward group living in a major American city. He invented the greater part of it, but the problem, it seems, is that what he invented is too close to the truth—or, at least, these people have come to believe it is.”
“Has he received threats?”
“Insinuations, mainly. They’re too smart to make direct threats. In the past, when
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