Bel-Air dead

17

Carolyn Blaine and Hetty Lang arrived nearly simultaneously, and Manolo brought them out to the pool, where Stone and Dino, freshly scrubbed, awaited them. Manolo took their drinks orders, then returned and served them.

“Thank you, Manolo,” Stone said.

“What a lovely place,” Carolyn said. “Whose house is it?”

“Vance Calder’s,” Stone said.

“Gosh, I was his complete fan,” Carolyn said. She looked around at the gardens. “There seems to be quite a lot of property.”

“Fourteen acres,” Stone replied, “and an option to buy another four.” He turned to Hetty. “Are you working on a film now, Hetty?”

“Yes, on a thriller that the studio seems to be very excited about. It should be good for my career.”

“An option for four more acres?” Carolyn asked.

Stone ignored her. “How long have you been under contract with Centurion, Hetty?”

“A year and a half,” she replied.

“Are you enjoying it?”

“Oh, yes; the other kids say it’s just like Metro in the thirties. They teach us everything.”

“Stone,” Carolyn said, “about this house…”

“Ah,” Stone said, “it looks like dinner is about to be served.”

Manolo was wheeling a cart to the poolside table. “In one minute, Mr. Stone,” he said.

“What classes are you taking?” Stone asked, again ignoring Carolyn.

“Acting, dancing, and fencing,” Hetty replied.

Carolyn was starting to ask again, but Manolo interrupted her. “Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served,” he said.

They all rose and took seats at the table. Stone tasted the wine and nodded to Manolo to pour.

Carolyn was looking antsy, and throughout dinner Stone did nothing to relieve that. When they were finished and afterdinner drinks had been served, Dino asked Hetty if she’d like to see the gardens, and the two of them left Stone and Carolyn alone.

“Now,” Carolyn said, “about this property and the other four acres

…”

Stone turned and looked at her. “Who are you?” he asked. She froze for a moment. “Didn’t I give you my card?” she asked.

“Your card and a brief bio,” Stone replied. “Why do I have the very strong feeling that, if I investigated, I’d find that everything you told me was a lie?”

Carolyn tried not to look flustered. She took a sip of her brandy and a deep breath.

“That’s a very odd thing to say to a dinner guest,” she said.

“Forgive my rudeness. Again, who are you?”

“Perhaps you’d be more comfortable if I left,” she said.

“I wouldn’t be more comfortable,” he said, “but you might.

If you wish to leave, then, by all means, do so. But if we should meet again, my first question would still be, who are you?”

She stared into her brandy glass. “All right,” she said, “I fudged my resume to get my job. Is that so terrible?”

“You did a great deal more than fudge your resume,” Stone said. “Everything you told me-and, no doubt, Terrence Prince-was a bald-faced lie. You made yourself up out of whole cloth.”

“Sometimes in life,” she said, “there is a need to just start over from scratch.”

“I suppose,” Stone replied. “But usually people who start over begin with the same name and credentials, then try to improve on those credentials as time passes.”

“All right,” she said, “I’m not proud of my past.”

“Are you a fugitive from justice?” Stone asked.

“No,” she replied. “No one is looking for me.”

“So you got away clean?” Stone asked, taking a leap.

“I’m not a criminal,” she said with some heat.

“Not in your own eyes, anyway,” Stone said. He was flying, now, making it up as he went along.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know what a sociopath is?” Stone asked. This just might push her over the edge, he thought.

But she sat perfectly still. “A person with no conscience,” she replied.

“Correct. A person who thinks only of herself and no one else. A person who could never admit wrongdoing, because she figures that, if she did it, it couldn’t be wrong.”

“That’s a very harsh judgment of someone you hardly know,” she said.

“Don’t know at all,” he responded. “Why don’t we start over. Who are you?”

“My name doesn’t matter,” she said.

“It matters in that was your first opportunity to tell the truth, and you passed on that.”

“All right, my name-at birth-was Olga Chernik. I was born in Chicago of Polish parents, I attended the public schools through the eighth grade, and then I ran away from home.”

“Where did you go?” Stone asked.

“Eventually, to Las Vegas.”

Stone thought he knew where the rest of this was going. “And you came under the aegis of a pimp, who got you hooked on heroin, and thereafter you led a life of degradation. Come on, Carolyn, you can do worse than that.”

“Worse?” she asked, incredulous.

“That’s a standard con; you get caught in a lie, so you make up something so much worse that the mark figures it must be true.”

She looked defeated. “Are you going to tell Terrence Prince about this?” she asked.

“I doubt if the occasion will arise for me to speak to him again.”

“Aren’t you going to close the Centurion deal?”

“If I do, it won’t require a personal visit from Mr. Prince; I’ll just vote the Calder shares at the stockholders’ meeting.”

“What does the Virginia Champion Farms deal have to do with your position on Centurion?” she asked.

“Is that what Prince sent you here to find out? All right, I’ll tell you: it has nothing whatever to do with Centurion.” That wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t entirely the truth, either.

“I’m confused,” she replied.

“It’s not my job to start you thinking clearly,” Stone said. “But when you do, give me a call, and maybe we can do some business. In the meantime, it would behoove you not to speak to Prince about this house and property. There will come a time when it will be more to your advantage.” He took a sip of his brandy, then stood up. “Good night,” he said.

She stood up, flustered. “Thank you for dinner.” She got out as fast as she could.

Stone was very satisfied with the way that went. Of course, he still didn’t know who she was, but her fingerprints on her brandy glass might help with that.

Stone sat sipping his brandy for a few quiet moments. Then his cell phone went off. “Hello?”

“It’s Mike Freeman.”

“Good evening, Mike; you’re up late.”

“I got a call from my operative who’s tracking Carolyn Blaine; he’s having trouble getting her fingerprints.”

“I have them,” Stone said. “Tell him to drive to the house and ring the bell.”

“Perfect,” Mike replied. “I’m coming out there tomorrow. Perhaps we can get together?”

“I’d like that. Where will you stay?”

“At the Bel-Air Hotel.”

“Has it reopened?” The Bel-Air had been closed for more than a year, undergoing a complete renovation.

“The Grand Reopening is tomorrow night; would you like to go?”

“Sure. Come here for a drink first; we’re just around the corner.”

“Six o’clock all right?”

“That’s fine.” They both hung up.