Bel-Air Dead (Stone Barrington 20)

They passed a dozen offices with glass fronts and closed doors, then a large conference room where a dozen people sat around an acre of mahogany table. Somebody was exhibiting a large chart on a huge, flat-screen monitor. Finally they came to a pair of tall doors. Ms. Blaine placed her right palm on a glass plate and tapped a code into a keypad; then, with a click, one of the doors opened. Stone was faced with a pale mahogany partition containing a large Picasso from his Blue Period. Fifty to a hundred million, he thought. Blaine led him around the partition into a large room with a large desk, large windows, and large furniture. A large man in a pale yellow linen suit stood and began walking around the desk, talking, apparently to himself.

“I have to go,” he said. “Get it done, then get back to me.” He removed a clear plastic microphone boom from his ear and tossed it onto the desk; then he held out a hand. “Mr. Barrington,” he said, “I wasn’t expecting you, though I knew, of course, that you were in town.” He was six-three or -four, of athletic build, and with a mop of blond hair that fell across his forehead. His hand was large and hard.

Stone shook it. “How do you do, Mr. Prince?”

“I do very well,” Prince replied. “Please come and have a seat,” he said, leading Stone toward a seating area, backed by a wall containing a single, very large Rothko oil, one of those that always reminded Stone of an atomic blast. “Would you like some refreshment?”

“Perhaps some iced tea,” Stone replied.

“Of course. Carolyn? I’ll have the same.”

Stone watched Ms. Blaine walk toward a wet bar in the opposite room.

“She’s quite something, isn’t she?” Prince asked.

“Quite,” Stone said.

“I think one should make a good first impression before making a first impression. What brings you to Los Angeles, Mr. Barrington?”

“Come now, Mr. Prince,” Stone said. “You know why I’m here or you wouldn’t have seen me without an appointment.”

Prince nodded. “Quite so. Maybe not even with an appointment,” he said. “How is Mrs. Calder these days?”

“Healthy,” Stone replied.

“Is she considering my offer?”

“Anyone would consider a billion-dollar offer,” Stone replied, “but she has other business interests that she must attend to as well.”

“Ah, yes,” Prince said, “Champion Farms. How is old Rex?”

Stone wondered exactly how he knew about the racing farm deal. “Never met the gentleman,” he replied.

Their ice tea arrived, and Stone had the pleasure of watching Carolyn Blaine bend over to set it on the coffee table.

Prince raised his glass in a toasting motion. “Now to business,” he said.

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.