Bel-Air dead

38

Stone stretched out on his bed after lunch and switched on the TV for something to lull him to sleep. The first image he saw was a car in flames, but what really caught his attention was the glass and steel house in the background.

A voiceover came on. “Early this morning the Malibu Fire Department answered a call to the beach home of film producer Jack Schmeltzer, whose new film, Window Shade, opened last weekend to record grosses.” A two-shot followed: a reporter and a fireman.

“Somebody apparently soaked a rag in gasoline, stuffed it into the fuel cap, and basically turned the car into a giant Molotov cocktail,” the fireman said. “It’s a pity; it was a classic 1950s Mercedes convertible.”

“Mr. Schmeltzer was unavailable for comment,” the reporter said.

Stone rewound the DVR to the beginning of the report and called Dino. “Come in here; there’s something I want you to see.”

Dino came into the room and took a chair. “Shoot.” He watched the news report, an expression of disbelief on his face. “It’s Prince at work,” he said. “At least he didn’t kill anybody this time. How is this going to affect your share count?”

“I don’t know,” Stone replied. “I guess it hinges on how scared Jack Schmeltzer is. I hope he’s just mad.”

“I would be,” Dino said.

“So would I, but I don’t know Schmeltzer.”

Stone’s phone rang. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Charlene; have you heard what happened at Jack Schmeltzer’s house?”

“I just saw it on TV.”

“Have you spoken to Jack?”

“I don’t even have his phone number,” Stone said.

“I don’t have his home number, either,” she said, “but you can reach him at Centurion.”

“I’ll call him,” Stone said. “Talk to you later.” He hung up, called the studio, and asked for Schmeltzer. A secretary put him on hold.

“Hello, Stone?”

“Yes, Jack; I just saw the TV news report.”

“Can you believe that son of a bitch?”

“No, I can’t.”

“I’d sue him, if I could prove he did it. That car just went through a ground-up, eight-month restoration, a hundred and forty grand’s worth.”

“Don’t do anything, Jack; just stick it to him at the stockholders’ meeting. That’s the best revenge.”

“You’re right. I’d like to punch him in the nose, but you’re right: that’s the way to get him.”

“Don’t mention this to anyone; if you run into Prince, behave as if nothing has happened. Be cordial, make him think you’re still in his corner.”

“How’d he find out I’m voting with you?”

“I don’t know. His assistant asked if we talked, but I said we’d just met at your dinner party and didn’t really talk. I was careful not to let on.”

“Charlene wouldn’t have talked, would she?”

“Of course not.”

“I guess Prince just saw us both in the same room and made an assumption.”

“That’s probably it.”

“Well, I’m going to take a deep breath and start looking for another Mercedes.”

“That’s the spirit.” The two men said goodbye and hung up.

“He took it well,” Stone said.

His cell phone rang, and Prince’s name appeared on the screen. Stone ignored it.

“I’m going to go have a drink with Rivera and catch up. You want to come?” Dino asked.

“Sure,” Stone said. “I’ve got nothing better to do.” Stone changed and met Dino on the patio.

“Which car you want to take?”

“I don’t want to take the Bentley for a drink with a cop,” Stone said. “He might think ill of us.”

“Good point.”

Stone handed Dino the keys to the Mercedes. “Will you move our car so that I can put the Bentley into the garage?”

“Sure.”

The two of them walked through the house and out to the garage. Dino got into the Mercedes, started it, and backed into a parking spot.

Stone opened the garage door, then got into the Bentley, and pulled it inside.

Dino was standing outside when Stone closed the garage door; the Mercedes was idling, waiting. “I forgot my piece,” he said. “You got yours?”

Stone slapped his belt. “Right here.”

As if Stone had pressed a button, the Mercedes exploded.