Sex, Lies & Serious Money

36

The following morning, Stone called Mike Freeman and discussed the new venue. “His living room is enormous, and it will be better for the guests than my house.”

“Sounds good. I’d like to meet Laurence.”

“And there’s a grand piano and room for some musicians.”

“I’ll send our catering manager over to have a look at it.”

“I’ll ask Laurence to tell the concierge to let her in.”

“When are you due back in town?”

“A couple of days. My companion hasn’t seen Santa Fe yet.”

The four of them piled into Laurence’s station wagon, since he and Theresa hadn’t seen much of the area, either. Stone drove, since he knew the territory.

A couple of miles up Tano Road, Stone saw a car in his rearview mirror. He had a couple of turns to make to get into the center of the city, and the car turned with him, though keeping well back. “Laurence,” he said, “remember the night I had a look at a car across the road from your house?”

“I do. Was it a silver Mini?”

“It was and is. It’s been following us since Tano Road.”

“It’s a local kid who’s a stringer for the National Inquisitor. It’s not the first time he’s made a bother of himself — he sneaked up on the house right after the security system was installed, and I nearly took a shot at him.”

“With what?”

“I bought a pistol.”

“I see.”

“He came to the press event that Faith Mackey set up, and I thought I’d seen the back of him, but I guess not.”

“Do you think he might be dangerous?”

“No, he’s just a skinny kid trying to make a few quid — excuse me, bucks.”

Stone turned onto Paseo de Peralta, which made a grand circle through some of the more interesting areas in town, then he turned onto Upper Canyon Road.

“Canyon Road? Isn’t this where the art galleries are?”

“That part is down the hill, I just want to get a closer look at our tail.”

Stone drove past houses that became less frequent as they climbed the mountain. At the very top of the road there was a turnaround, and momentarily, the Mini passed him on the way up and made the turn, too. Stone stopped the station wagon and turned to block the road, then he got out. “Stay here, please,” he said to the others.

The Mini had stopped, and the young man stared owlishly at him through black-rimmed glasses as he approached. Stone rapped on the window glass with a knuckle; the kid thought about it for a minute, then the glass slid down. “What’s on your mind?” Stone asked.

“Nothing, not a thing.”

“Don’t you know you can get into trouble doing this sort of thing?”

“What sort of thing?”

“Annoying people who want privacy. That’s what you get paid for by the Inquisitor, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How about if I call Pat Bolton and tell him you’re lousy at your job?”

“Who’s that?”

“The guy you used to work for.”

“Used to?”

“Not after our conversation. You’ve been Mr. Hayward’s guest once, and that was supposed to be it. Pat agreed, along with the other editors, that Mr. Hayward wouldn’t be bothered again.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Mr. Hayward’s attorney. How do you like the Mini?”

“It’s okay, why?”

“Because if I have to haul you into court, you won’t be driving it much longer. You do get to keep making the payments, though.” Stone handed him his business card. “Give that to your lawyer, and tell him he’ll be hearing from me if I see you in my rearview mirror again, or anywhere near Mr. Hayward.”

The kid stared stonily at him, then Stone went back to the Mercedes and drove away. The Mini sat in the road behind him, unmoving, then Stone turned onto Alameda and didn’t see it again.

“You must have had an effective conversation,” Laurence said, looking back.

“He seemed to get the picture,” Stone said. “Would you like to see some galleries?”

“I’d like that very much,” Laurence replied.

Stone turned into Canyon Road and parked. “Let’s walk up one side and down the other. We can grab some lunch at Geronimo’s.”

An hour and a half later they had reached the top of Canyon Road and were seated at a table on the veranda, when the Mini drove by, and the driver took a snapshot as he passed.

“I guess I didn’t make myself clear,” Stone said.

“What can we do about it?”

“I know the guy he works for. He’s been a problem in the past, but I thought we’d worked things out. I guess I was wrong. Do you have a guest list for the press event?”

“I believe I still have it.”

“Let me know what the kid’s name is.”

“I’ll do that.”

After they had had a good lunch, they walked back down the road, cruising the galleries. At the bottom they got back into the car and drove up the road, picking up Laurence’s purchases along the way. They arrived back at the house with a dozen paintings and sculptures in the luggage compartment; the larger pieces would be delivered. They spent the rest of the afternoon hanging his purchases and taking delivery of a few others.

Later in the day they sat down for a drink. “You said you bought a gun,” Stone said.

“I know, I know, you told me not to. Actually, I think you may have been right — I nearly shot at the kid stringer.”

“Laurence,” Stone said, in his sternest Dutch uncle voice, “do not, under any circumstances, bring the gun to New York. The city has very strict laws regarding the possession of weapons, even in one’s own home, and the penalties are severe.”

“Can I get a permit?”

“Permits are available but in very short supply. If you’re not carrying satchels of currency around on a daily basis, or in the jewelry trade, you will almost certainly be denied a carry permit.”

“How about a permit to keep it in my apartment?”

“Those are slightly less restrictive, but don’t bring a gun into your home until you have the permit in hand.”

“Okay,” Laurence replied.