They came to a small city square with a park in the middle and a courthouse facing it. The rest of the square was shops, a department store, and a corner drugstore with a lunch counter. Then Rick turned a corner, and they were in New York.
“Wow,” Dino said, “this gives me chills; it’s like the beats I used to walk. You’ve got street lamps, fireplugs, the works.”
“The fireplugs operate, too,” Rick said. “We have our own firehouse with two trucks.”
Soon they were back at the admin building, standing next to Stone’s rented Mercedes. “Thank you for lunch and the tour, Rick,” Stone said.
Dino thanked him, too.
“What’s your next move?” Rick asked Stone.
“I’m doing some due diligence on the investment Arrington is looking at, and I think I’d better meet Terrence Prince,” he said.
“I’d give you an introduction,” Rick said, “except that he and I are not really on speaking terms, and he might view you as my representative, instead of Arrington’s.”
“That’s all right,” Stone said, “I won’t need an introduction.”
They shook hands, and Stone and Dino got into the car.
“I know Joe Rivera at the LAPD,” Dino said. “I gave him some help on the extradition of a fugitive a couple of years ago. You want me to talk to him about Jennifer Harris?”
“Good idea,” Stone said. He got out his iPhone and Googled Prince Investments. “Wilshire Boulevard,” Stone said. “Drop me there. Then you can have the car.”
“How will you get back to Arrington’s house?” Dino asked.
“I’ll improvise,” Stone replied. He made his way to Wilshire. It was easy to find Prince’s offices, since the name was emblazoned at the top of the tall building. Stone got out, and Dino got behind the wheel. “See you later,” Stone said, and walked into the building.
A large reception desk blocked access to the elevators, and it was manned by uniformed security officers. Stone noted that they were armed.
“May I help you?” a beefy officer asked.
“Yes, I’m here to see Terrence Prince; my name is Stone Barrington.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the man asked.
“No, but Mr. Prince will see me. Let me speak to his secretary.”
The officer dialed a number, then handed the phone to Stone.
“May I help you?” the woman asked in the voice reserved for handling nut cases.
“Yes, my name is Stone Barrington; I’m an attorney from New York, and I represent Arrington Calder. I’d like to see Mr. Prince, please.”
“Does Mr. Prince know you?”
“Not yet,” Stone replied. “Please tell him what I said.”
“Please hold.” She clicked off, and a string quartet kept Stone company. She came back on. “Let me speak to the officer,” she said.
Stone handed the phone to the man, who listened, then hung up. He would either get an appointment or the bum’s rush.
“Please go to the fortieth floor,” the man said, pointing at an elevator with a guard standing in front of it. “You’ll be met.” He waved to the guard.
r /> Stone walked to the elevator and looked for a button to push, but there were no buttons. The door closed, and the elevator rose fast enough to nearly buckle his knees. When the door opened a tall, very beautiful blonde in a black suit stood waiting in an open, carpeted area.
“Mr. Barrington? I’m Carolyn Blaine. Please follow me.”
“My pleasure,” Stone replied. The view of her from behind was very good. As they crossed the open area, lighted from both ends by floor-to-ceiling windows, Stone reflected that Prince had devoted several hundred square feet of very expensive office space to impressing his visitors.