Foul Play

Fifty-Nine

Gregor Kronk sat in the conference room of the Wall Street firm handling the initial public offering of Troutman Industries, staring at a huge monitor screen.

“We’re an hour and a half in, and we’re up 140 points,” an executive said. “It’s going very well, and projections are telling us it will go higher, perhaps much higher.”

Kronk sat and beamed. He was growing richer by the minute.

Stone and Dino presented themselves at the reception desk of Whitman & Whitman. A young man in shirtsleeves appeared and shook their hands. “I’m Ben Whitman. Come with me, please.”

Stone and Dino followed him into a large conference room. Taking up most of the big table was an architect’s model of what appeared to be a resort, which included cottages, a beach, and a marina.

“This,” Ben said, “is what Shep Troutman came to see and approved on the day he died.”

“I see the three houses that are being rebuilt,” Stone said, “but I see a lot more. What is all this?”

“It’s what was going to be called Troutman Bay, but at our meeting Shep had informed me he planned to discuss with you the possibility of bringing it under the Arrington Brand. He thought you might like the name ‘The Vineyard Arrington.’

“I can see why you might feel a little stunned,” Ben continued. “Shep and Rod recently spent some time at your Bel-Air Arrington, in Los Angeles, and they were very impressed with your execution of the place and the feel of it. The main house is pretty much as it was. The central house has been turned into a reception center, restaurant, bar, etcetera, and the third house is the yacht club.”

“The whole thing is spectacular,” Stone said, “but how would you ever get planning permission from the local authorities?”

“First of all, this land has been held in a Troutman family trust for nearly a hundred years, and because of that they’re working under a different set of planning rules. Secondly, as you can see, all the buildings are shingle-style. When it’s done, you will think that the property has been around for a century. It blends beautifully with the landscape. Viewed from the water, it’s even better, and the only new structures are the cottages, twenty-five of them.”

Stone saw a large TV set on a wall. “Could you turn that on, please, and tune it to CNBC? There’s something going on I want to follow.” He watched as the TV came on. Immediately, someone was talking about the Troutman IPO and how fast the stock was moving up.

“What’s wrong?” Dino asked.

“Ben, you said your secretary has a PC. May I use it for a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

“I won’t keep you long.” Stone followed him to the computer, and while it booted up, he called Huey Horowitz.

“Yeah?”

“Huey, it’s Stone. The IPO started at nine-thirty this morning, and I set the program for that time, but nothing has happened.”

“Tell me how you set it up,” Huey said.

Stone went through the procedure he had used. “I followed your cheat sheet.”

“Let me take a look at it.” Stone could hear the clicking of computer keys. “I think I’ve found the problem. Spell the word avocado for me.”

“A-V-A-C-A-D-O.”

“There’s your problem,” Huey said.

“Where?”

“The correct spelling is A-V-O-C-A-D-O.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Well, yes. What time did you set it for?”

“Nine-thirty am.”

“Then let’s reset it. Pick another time.”

Stone looked at a clock on the wall. It was 11:50 am. “Twelve noon,” he said, looking at the computer before him. “It looks correct now.”

“All you have to do now is wait for noon.”

“Thank you, Huey. I’m sorry to have been so stupid.” They both hung up, and Stone went back to the conference room.

“Everything all right?”

“Just fine.”

“Please tell me what you think of all this?”

Stone looked at the model. “How soon can you start?”

“About two and a half hours ago, on the main house,” Ben replied.

“Then don’t stop until it’s finished. I’d like you to photograph the model and send it, will the specifications, to a list of my associates, which will be provided shortly by my secretary.” He made the call to Joan, then called Marcel DuBois in Paris, then Mike Freeman and Charley Fox in New York. He held a hand over the phone. “How much do you want right now?”

Ben told him.

“Charley, did you hear that? Then wire the funds from my account to Whitman & Whitman in Martha’s Vineyard. Here, Ben Whitman will give you wiring instructions.” He handed Ben the phone, then he walked around the model again.

Ben gave him a DVD disk. “Take this home with you and see if you have any other questions.”

Stone sat down and took a deep breath.

Kronk and his associates were in the middle of lunch when the first call came. He left the table and took the call. “Yes?”

“Mr. Kronk, this is the Lenox office. Something has gone wrong with the machinery.”

“What?”

“First, the multilathe went down, then half a dozen other machines. We can’t restart any of them. It’s like before when Shepherd Troutman screwed them up. Hang on, I’ve got a call coming in from Mumbai.”

A secretary came in. “Mr. Kronk,” she said, “I have calls coming in for you from England, Kenya, and Brazil. They all say it’s very urgent.”

“Put them on hold.” He went back to the Lenox call. “It’s Kronk. What’s happening now?”

“Everything has shut down. Every plant.”

“Well, get them restarted before the market hears about this!”

“We’re doing our best, sir.”

Kronk hung up, and every member of his party were standing, staring at him. One of them was holding a phone.

“What have you done?” the man with the phone asked. “You told us this problem was permanently resolved.”

“Please be patient,” Kronk said. “We’ll sort it out.”

“Start selling,” the man said, and people ran for their desks.

A half hour later, the world knew. Kronk was sitting on a sofa with a large Scotch in his hand, sweating.

Stone and Dino had lunch at the firm, then headed back to the airport. They had just turned in their rental car and were walking out to the airplane when Dino’s phone rang.

The man charged with guarding the JetProp shook Stone’s hand. “No one has approached the airplane for any reason,” he said.

Stone got into the cockpit and ran through the checklist, while he waited for Dino to finish his call. A couple of minutes later Dino sat down and began buckling in.

“Anything important?” Stone asked.

“Sort of. We answered a 911 call from a Wall Street investment bank: an apparent suicide, but my people think it was probably staged.”

“Who?”

Dino smiled a little. “Kronk,” he said.