Sex, Lies & Serious Money

3

Stone’s phone buzzed.

“Conrad Trilling for you on one,” Joan said.

“How are you, Conrad?”

“Very well, Stone. I understand you’re bringing us a prospective client tomorrow morning — a Mr. Laurence Hayward of Palm Beach?”

“That is correct.”

“I hope you’re sitting down, Stone, because I have some bad news for you — you’ve been had.”

“Oh? How?”

“Mr. Laurence Hayward of Australian Avenue, Palm Beach, died three weeks ago. Didn’t you think we’d check up on him?”

“That was his father.”

“Laurence C. Hayward?”

“The son is Laurence B. Hayward.”

“Well, Laurence C. owned a house at that address, which is valued at three million, and he has less than two million in liquid assets, so where is Mr. Laurence B. getting this large deposit he’s making tomorrow?” The sound of computer keys clicking could be heard on the phone.

“All will be revealed tomorrow morning, Conrad.”

“And I must tell you, Stone, that Mr. Laurence B. Hayward has no credit record to speak of — only a MasterCard, with an okay payment record, and no employer, either.”

“That’s because he’s been living mostly in England since he was eight years old, and he is now thirty. If you’d like to check his credit over there, his employer is Eton College, where he is an assistant master and of which he is an old boy. He came to the States to attend his sick father three or four months ago.”

“One moment.” More computer keys. “Good news, Stone, the fellow exists! He also has an account at Coutts Bank, which speaks well of him, but it’s small potatoes.”

“Conrad, would you prefer it if I took him elsewhere?”

“I would prefer it if I knew more about him before I press American Express to deliver a Centurion card instantly.”

“Conrad, have I ever brought you a client who didn’t meet or exceed your wealth standards?”

“Well, no...”

“Then have a little faith, and tell American Express to, as well. See you tomorrow at nine.” Stone hung up.

Joan buzzed. “Herb Fisher on two.”

“Yes, Herb?”

“Have you done any checking into Mr. Hayward? I mean, Laurence?”

“No, but Wilmington Trust has, and he’s real.”

“Okay. You have an appointment at three PM tomorrow to view the penthouse at the Fairleigh. It’s apartment 15, and the agent is a Ms. Cassandra Gotham — veddy British — and she will meet you there.”

“Thank you, Herb. See you tomorrow morning.”

It was half past six when Laurence returned from his barbering. He walked into Stone’s office and stopped. “Is this any better?”

He looked quite handsome, Stone thought. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Let’s go upstairs and find you a room, then we’ll have some dinner.”

Laurence grabbed his bag and followed Stone to the elevator. Stone led him into the large room and showed him where things were. “Do you want to freshen up?” he asked.

“I don’t get any fresher than after a couple of hours at Nico’s,” he replied.

“Then let’s go down to my study.” They got back on the elevator and got off at the living room.

“This is a very beautiful house,” Laurence said. He stopped before a grouping of pictures. “And these are very beautiful, too.”

“Thank you. They were painted by my mother, Matilda Stone. She has a few other things hanging in the American collection at the Metropolitan Museum.”

“That will be one of my first stops in New York,” Laurence said. They went into the study.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, thank you, scotch, a single malt, if you have it.”

“I have a Macallan 12, a Talisker, and a Laphroaig.”

“I don’t know the Talisker.”

“Try it, you’ll find it spicy and smoky. Ice?”

“A little.”

Stone handed him the drink and poured himself a Knob Creek bourbon, and they sat down.

“This is superb whiskey,” Laurence said.

“I’m glad you like it.”

Laurence sighed. “You must think I’m crazy.”

“No crazier than any other thirty-year-old who has just come into more than half a billion dollars.”

“Has anything like this ever happened to you?”

“Yes, I inherited a large sum from my late wife — not as large as your sum, but enough.”

“And what did you do with it?”

“I invested it, just as you are planning to do.”

“You must have bought some nice things.”

“Real estate, mostly. I bought a house in Maine, one in Paris, and a country place in England. I also bought the house next door, where my staff live.”

“Where is the place in England?”

“On the Beaulieu River, in Hampshire.”

“Which side?”

“West.”

“I know the area. I’ve done quite a lot of sailing around there. Do you have a boat?”

“An American motor yacht, a Hinckley 43.”

“I’ve seen Hinckleys — very traditional-looking.”

“They are, but under the deck, they’re very modern. You said you had taken some flying lessons at Palm Beach Airport?”

“Yes, I got a multiengine rating and a 525, single-pilot jet type rating there. My father flew a Beech Baron, a rather old one. I sold it.”

“Where did you do your private and instrument ratings?”

“At Oxford airport, in England, and at Flight Safety, in Vero Beach.”

“Are you going to buy an airplane?”

“Yes, I think I am. I didn’t mention it because I thought you’d think I was really crazy.”

“No, I fly myself. I have a CitationJet 3 Plus.”

“I know the airplane. What’s the plus?”

“Garmin 3000 avionics, mostly. What kind of airplane do you want?”

“Something I can fly myself — maybe a Citation Mustang.”

“My first jet. My son is flying it now.”

“Would you recommend it?”

“Yes, but perhaps not to you. You can afford something more capable, and believe me, after a few months in the Mustang, you’d want something more capable, like an M2 or the CJ 3 Plus.”

“How much training is involved for the CJ 3?”

“You’ll need a 525 type rating, which takes sixteen days but applies to all the CJ line. There’s only one simulator, and that’s at Flight Safety in Wichita.”

“Then I could fly it myself?”

“You’d be legal to fly the airplane, but your insurance company would want you to build some time, before they’d insure you for single-pilot operations. But...”

“But I don’t need an insurance company, do I? I could self-insure.”

“Yes, you could, but you’d want to put in some time with a mentor pilot until you feel comfortable flying alone. How much total time do you have?”

“About twelve hundred hours. Four hundred of that in a King Air. My stepfather owns that, and I began making business trips with him and his pilot, who was an excellent instructor. Eventually, I moved to the left seat, and I guess I’ve got a little over a hundred hours single pilot.”

“If you’re comfortable in the King Air, you’ll be fine in the CJ 3.”

Fred came in and set a table, then brought up dinner. They talked for another couple of hours before Laurence began to look drowsy.

“You’d better get some sleep,” Stone said. “You’ve had a big day, and we’ve got a busy day tomorrow. Fred will wake you at seven, and we’ll leave at eight forty-five. First stop, your new bank.”

“Don’t forget my check,” Laurence said.

“I won’t.”