“Oh, you made the papers this morning. Haven’t you seen the Times?”
He had not. His secretary didn’t know they were back; she hadn’t restarted the papers. “No. What did they have to say?”
“Only that you, your wife, and half a dozen of your staff had been hauled into court, charged with trespassing and possession of illegal weapons, and fined and deported.”
“Oh, they’ve blown that all out of proportion. We had an argument over a real estate deal, and the fastest way to settle it was just to leave.”
“And not come back?” she asked, while taking notes on a pad.
“That’s just temporary.”
“What sort of real estate deal?”
“We were looking at a country house and some property. Somebody outbid us.”
“And that would be a Mr. Stone Barrington?”
Calhoun blinked. “Ah, yes, he owns an adjoining property.”
“And two of your people were arrested earlier in New York and Connecticut on weapons charges, weren’t they?”
“I’m afraid they hadn’t researched the local laws on the subject. They’re Westerners, you see, and unaccustomed to restrictions on Second Amendment rights.”
“So that’s twice you’ve had to exert your Second Amendment rights against Mr. Barrington? Is there some sort of animus between you?”
“Certainly not on my part,” Calhoun said, sounding wounded. “His son has made a defamatory film about me.”
“Oh, yes, Hell’s Bells. Nice title.”
“We’ll be filing a libel suit soon.”
“Libel is tough to prove. Are you sure you have enough evidence? Movie scripts are very well vetted by the studios before they’re put into production.”
“I don’t want to say too much at this point.” He looked at his watch. “Goodness, I have an appointment. You’re going to have to excuse me,” he said, rising. “Let me show you out.”
He got her out the door, then went back to the kitchen. “That New Yorker woman is back,” he said. “She says they’re running her profile soon.”
“Maybe we’d better go back to L.A.,” she said.
“Not just yet,” he replied. “I’ve some work to do here.” He picked up the phone and dialed a number.
35
The following morning, early, Stone got a phone call from Joan. “You didn’t tell me you were redecorating the house,” she said.
“How’s that again?”
“The paint job on the front of the house. Did you order that done?”
“No, I didn’t. What kind of a paint job?”
“Pink,” she said, “with dirty words. I shouldn’t have to read them to you, they’re always on the tip of your tongue.”
“Any messages?”
“Something about Second Amendment rights.”
“Take pictures, e-mail them to Dino and me, then call the police and say we suspect followers of Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun. He arrived in New York yesterday. I don’t know if he’s in a hotel or home in California. Then get somebody to come in and clean the facade. They may have to clean it all the way to the top to get a match in the brick color.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Yes, call Mike Freeman and ask him to put an armed guard in your reception area, so he can see out the window. Twenty-four/seven, until further notice.”
“I’ll feel so safe,” she said. “I hope he’s cute.”
“Don’t distract him.” Stone hung up and called Dino’s room and told him what had happened. “You’ll have the photos in a minute.”
“What do you need?”
“I need to make Dr. Don’s life continuously miserable until he crawls back into his hole.”
“Sounds like that’s what he’s trying to do to you.”
“Right. I want to trump him.”
“Does he have a residence in New York?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll look into that. The New York State tax department is on a tear about part-time residents right now. They seem to think that anybody who breathes in New York should pay income taxes.”
“What a good idea!”
“Oh, by the way, I got a calclass="underline" U.S. Customs nailed Dr. Don at Kennedy with something over a hundred thousand bucks and half that much in pounds, confiscated it all, except five thousand dollars, pending a hearing.”
“Oh, grand! See you later.”
Stone’s bedside phone rang. “Hello?”
“Mr. Barrington, my name is Lisa Altman. I’m a writer for The New Yorker.”
“Good morning, how can I help you?”
“We’re about to publish a profile of Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun.”
“I’m delighted to hear it. I’m sure he won’t like it.”
“I’m sure, too. I spoke to Dr. Don yesterday and asked him why he is now persona non grata in the U.K. He said it was over a real estate argument with you.”
“Have you got a tape recorder running?”
“I will in two seconds... there.”
Stone gave her an account of events since Peter’s movie opened, right up to having his New York house repainted.
“Sounds like war,” she said.
“Does Calhoun have an apartment in New York?”
“Yes, on West Fifty-seventh Street, high up in one of those skinny, impossibly expensive buildings.” She gave him the street and apartment number.
“Do you know how long he’s had it?”
“Since the building opened last year, and he had another place on Central Park West before that.” She gave him the address.
“For how long?”
“Something like ten years, I believe.”
“I hope you’ll include the painting of my house in your piece,” Stone said. “I can e-mail you fresh photos.”
“Thank you, I’d like to see them.”
“Other news: I’ve just heard that Calhoun was searched in customs at Kennedy yesterday, and they found a hundred grand in dollars and fifty grand in pounds, all confiscated, except the legal five thousand dollars, pending a hearing. And that’s after he paid eight thousand pounds in cash fines before departing London.”
“I’ll call customs right away and get a quote.”
Stone had a thought. “How close are you to publishing?”
“Next week.”
“Could you delay it for a week in order to peruse a file on Calhoun from a certain federal law enforcement agency? One that could be anonymously delivered to you today, and the source of which will never be revealed? The Brits saw it before Calhoun’s deportation.”
“I’ll know as soon as I see it.”
“Within the hour,” Stone said, grabbing a pencil. “Where are you?”
“At the New Yorker building.” She gave him a room number.
“Bye.” He hung up and called Joan. “Please send the FBI file on Calhoun, in a plain brown wrapper, no return address, to the following person.” He read her the name and address. “Include prints of your architectural photos.” He hung up and called Dino. “Here’s Dr. Don’s address in New York. He’s lived there for a year. Before that he lived at this address on Central Park West.”
Dino wrote them down. “You’ve been busy.”
“Not busy, lucky. I’ll tell you over lunch.”
36
Two days later, Dr. Don received a letter from the New York State tax people, demanding his federal tax returns for the past four years and a list of the days he had spent in New York during those years and their purpose. He immediately called his accountant. “How the hell am I supposed to get all this information?”
“I have your tax returns. Do you have a diary or keep a calendar of your travels?”
“Yes.”
“Then extract the information they want and send it to me. I’ll send them a letter saying that we’re working on it.”