Dishonorable Intentions (21 page)

G
ala was sitting at a desk in the study of Stone's Arrington house, her laptop on the desk. It was going well: she had her conclusion in mind now, and the dialogue in the final scenes was going well. Her cell phone rang. Without looking at it, she picked it up. “Hello?”

“Gala, it's Boris. Please don't hang up, I have something important to say.”

“What is it, Boris, and make it quick—I'm working.”

“First of all, I want to apologize to you for the trouble I've made. I'm very sorry, and I won't do it again.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that.”

“I want to apologize to Mr. Barrington, too. I'd like to take both of you to lunch at the Bel-Air.”

“Boris, that's crazy. Why would Stone want to have lunch with you?”

“I've been seeing a therapist,” Tirov said, “and she says it's very important to my recovery that I personally apologize to everyone I've offended.”

“Then either your therapist is insane, or she has no idea how many people you've offended. It would take years for you to personally apologize to all of them.”

“I've got to start somewhere, haven't I? Please do this for me. Ask Mr. Barrington if he will bring you to lunch at the Bel-Air. After all, I have to apologize to you, too.”

“All right, I'll ask him, but I won't recommend it.”

“That's all I ask. I suggest tomorrow at one o'clock, in the Bel-Air garden restaurant. Later tomorrow afternoon, I have to leave for a location shoot. I'm starting a big Western, and I won't be back for weeks.”

“I'll ask him. Goodbye.” She hung up. He had broken her concentration; now she had to get her head back into the scene she was working on.

—

S
tone stopped in. “Can you break for a bite?”

She closed the laptop. “Sure, I can use a break.”

“I'll have lunch sent to the pool.”

They settled down at a table there, and the food arrived.

“Stone,” she said reluctantly, “I have to ask you a favor.”

“Sure, how can I help?”

“I had a call from Boris this morning.”

“Oh, no,” Stone groaned.

“It's all right, it's nothing bad.”

“What did he have to say?”

“He's begun to see a therapist, and as part of his treatment she has insisted that he see the people he's offended and apologize to them personally.”

“That sounds like a twelve-step program.”

“Maybe it is, I don't know, but he's begged me to bring you to lunch at the Bel-Air tomorrow, so that he can apologize to you.”

“I don't want his apology,” Stone said. “I just want him to be absent from our lives.”

“I want that, too, and this may be the best way to accomplish it.”

“I'm not sure I could have lunch with him without stabbing him with a fork.”

“He was really very pathetic on the phone. I believe he's sincere. And I know him well enough that he won't let up until he's seen us.”

“How about later in the week?”

“He's leaving tomorrow afternoon to go on location for several weeks.”

Stone sighed. “I don't want to see him—not yet, anyway. I'm still too angry with him. Next time we're in L.A., maybe. When is he coming back from his location shoot?”

“He said several weeks.”

“I'm sorry, I know you want this, but I don't really trust myself to see him, not even in a public place.”

“All right, I'll tell him.”

—

W
hen they had finished lunch, Gala called Tirov.

“Gala?”

“Yes.”

“Did you speak to him? Will the two of you join me?”

“I'm sorry, Boris, he has a business meeting tomorrow. He said perhaps next time we're in L.A.”

“As you wish,” Tirov said, and there was ice in his voice.

“I'll call you next time we're in L.A.”

“My therapist says that if someone I've offended won't meet me, then I should send a gift.”

“If you like, fine.”

“I'll have it messengered to the Arrington tomorrow, before I leave for location. What suite number?”

“Just address it to Stone—the hotel will know. Have a good shoot.” She hung up and went back to work. The lunch break helped; she got her scene finished.

The following morning Gala finished her script. She read through it once more, and was pleased with how well it flowed. She e-mailed it to her agent, who would print and messenger the hard copy to the studio.

She and Stone had lunch by the pool again, and they celebrated her completion of the script with champagne.

As they were finishing lunch, the butler approached. “Mr. Barrington, please excuse me. A delivery came for you, from Tiffany's. I put it on the table in the study.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. “I'm not expecting anything.”

“I forgot to tell you,” Gala said. “When I told Boris you couldn't have lunch, he said that his therapist had told him that if he couldn't see someone to whom he was apologizing, he should send a gift instead. He's always loved Tiffany's—it's probably a clock or a piece of crystal.”

—

W
hen they had finished lunch, they went into the house, and Stone found a large sky-blue box on the study table, tied with a white ribbon. There was no card. He was about to untie the ribbon when he stopped and looked at the box carefully. It looked like every other Tiffany's box he had ever seen: there were no marks or blemishes. He thought about it for a minute, then he sat down and got out his cell phone.

Gala came into the room. “Oh, is this the one from Boris?” She reached for the ribbon. “Shall I open it for you?”

“No!” Stone said, stopping her short. “Please don't touch it.” He pressed a speed-dial button and waited.

“Billy Barnett,” a man's voice said.

“Hi, it's Stone.”

“What's up?”

“I had a lunch invitation from Boris Tirov yesterday. He told Gala his therapist wanted him to apologize to people he had offended.”

“Really?”

“I declined, and he said he would send a gift instead. It arrived a few minutes ago. It's a large box from Tiffany's.”

“Where is the box?”

“On a table in my study.”

“Have you touched it?”

“No.”

“Don't. I'll be there in twenty minutes. Please let the front gate know I'm coming.”

Stone hung up, called the front gate and told them to let Billy in when he arrived.

—

B
illy walked into the room without knocking, carrying a briefcase, and went straight to the box. He walked slowly around it, then lifted it carefully and peered at the bottom and set it down again. “Would you and Gala please leave the room?” he asked.

“Gala, please leave the room,” Stone said.

She started for the door, then stopped. “What about you?”

“I'm going to stay with Billy.”

She left the room and closed the door behind her.

“Are you sure?” Billy asked.

“If you're staying, I'm staying.”

Billy set his briefcase on the table slowly, then opened it. He removed a small box cutter, placed his hand on top of the box, and pressed the box cutter against the side until it pierced the cardboard. Then he began sawing, until he had cut a circular hole about four inches in diameter. He then put the cut cardboard and the box cutter into the briefcase, bent over and sniffed at the hole. “Uh-oh,” he said. He removed a small flashlight from his briefcase and shone its bright light into the box, then he turned it off and stepped back. “There's a piece of plastic explosive in there half the size of my hand—about four ounces, I estimate. Enough to destroy this room and kill anyone near it.”

“I'm glad I didn't open it,” Stone said.

“It's time to call the bomb squad,” Billy said.

“What's the alternative?”

“I can disable it myself.”

“Safely?”

“I wouldn't do it if I thought I'd get killed.”

“Then let's leave the police out of it,” Stone said. “It would take me days to deal with them.”

Billy went back to his briefcase, removed a pair of wire cutters and the flashlight, and went to work. A minute later, he stood back. “All clear,” he said. “What would you like me to do with the explosive?”

“I don't want it.”

“Then I'll dispose of it, if that's all right.”

“That's all right,” Stone said.

Billy reached into the box through the hole he had made, removed a slab of what looked like modeling clay, put it into his briefcase, and closed it. He picked up the briefcase in one hand and the Tiffany's box in the other. “If you'll excuse me.”

“Thank you, Billy,” Stone said.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Stone said.

Gala stuck her head in. “Everything all right?”

“Everything's fine,” Stone said. “My board meeting is tomorrow morning. Shall we go back to Santa Fe tomorrow afternoon?”

“Fine with me.” She left.

Billy spoke up. “Don't you think it's about time you dealt more positively with Tirov?”

“Perhaps it is. How would you advise handling it?”

“Let me give it some thought. I'll call you.”

T
eddy drove home, angry that Tirov had not taken him seriously. That night, he revisited his house and found the place deserted. Next day, he made some phone calls and learned that Tirov was shooting a Western at a place called the Bonanza Creek Movie Ranch, in New Mexico; the woman he talked to said the shoot was for five weeks. He didn't feel like going to New Mexico, so he decided to wait until Tirov returned.

Stone attended his board meeting in a hotel conference room; his friend Marcel duBois attended from Paris via video. He had lunch with the board, then he and Gala took off from Santa Monica at four o'clock. They picked up a big tailwind and were in Santa Fe in little more than an hour.

By the time they got to the house it was six o'clock and the sun was low in the sky. Stone stopped Gala's Range Rover out
front. “Hang on here,” he said, “and keep Bob with you. I want to have a look around the house before you come in. I'll call your cell when I'm done.”

He carried their bags inside and set them by the front door, then as quietly as possible he checked out the master suite and the kitchen. All was in order; no visits from bears or ex-husbands. He called Gala. “The coast is clear. Come on in.”

Stone fed Bob and built a fire in the kitchen hearth, and they had a drink before Gala fed him.

“You never told me what was in the box from Boris,” she said.

“It was a homemade bomb,” Stone replied.

“Are you serious?”

“Very serious. Billy disposed of it.”

“Why didn't you call the police?”

“Because it would have kicked up a lot of dust, and nothing would have come of it. He would have denied everything, and we would have had no evidence that he sent it. He's not dumb enough to leave fingerprints or DNA on the box or the bomb.”

“But why would he ask us to lunch one day, then send us a bomb the next?”

“I think that if we had left the Arrington, even for the short drive to the Bel-Air, something would have happened to us on the way. When we declined his invitation, he turned to other means. That's my best guess, anyway.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“I don't know yet. I know what I'd
like
to do, but you don't need to hear that.”

“If I knew how to have him killed, I'd do it,” Gala said.

“No, no, no, murder isn't the answer. I know someone who would do it, if I asked him, but I'm not going to.”

“He deserves to die.”

“Maybe he does, but I'm not going to make that decision. Quite apart from the moral considerations, which are daunting, murder is a very messy business, and there are too many ways to get caught. I know that all too well from my days as a homicide detective.”

“Are there any circumstances under which you would kill him?”

Stone shrugged. “Self-defense. Tell me, when you were divorced, did you have the locks here changed?”

“Every one of them,” she replied. “Were you thinking of luring him into the house?”

“No, that would make it murder.”

“Tell you what, you lure him into the house, and I'll kill him.”

Stone laughed. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life in the New Mexico State Prison?”

“Of course not.”

“There's an old saying among criminals—‘If you can't do the time, don't do the crime.' That's jailhouse wisdom.”

She fixed them another drink, then started dinner. “I'm just going to make some pasta,” she said.

“I'll be pitifully grateful for anything,” he said.

Stone's cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“Hi, it's Billy Barnett.”

“Hi, Billy.”

“Did you leave L.A.?”

“Yes, we're in Santa Fe, at Gala's house.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Why, do you miss us already?”

“I had a look around Tirov's house last night, and he wasn't there. I made some calls and found out that he's at a place called Bonanza Creek Movie Ranch, making a Western.”

“Yes, he told Gala that he was going on location.”

“Do you know where the Bonanza Creek Movie Ranch is?”

“No idea.”

“It's just outside Santa Fe. Gala's place is in Tesuque, right?”

“Right.”

“Then you're about ten, fifteen miles from Bonanza Creek.”

“Oh, shit.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Billy said. “I think it would be a good idea if you invited me out there?”

“Consider yourself invited.”

“I'll borrow the Mustang from Peter and come tomorrow morning.”

“We have plenty of room for you. Bring your wife, if you like.”

“Thanks, but not when I'm working. Where do you park?”

“Landmark Aviation. What time shall I pick you up?”

“I'll arrange my own transport, thanks.”

Stone gave him directions to the house.

“It may be late in the day before I'm there.”

“All right, see you then.” He hung up.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“Billy Barnett. We're going to have a houseguest from tomorrow night.”

“For how long?”

“I don't know.”

“Does this have something to do with Boris?”

“Turns out that Tirov's Western is being filmed at a place called Bonanza Creek Movie Ranch, which is only a few minutes' drive from here. Do you know it?”

“Yes. I've been out there. It's a good facility. Lots of movies have been shot there. Boris didn't mention it to me.”

“I shouldn't think he would.”

They had dinner and shared a good bottle of wine. By the time they had cleaned up the kitchen it was bedtime, and they were both a little drunk.

Stone went ahead to the master suite and turned on some lights. Bob came along and got into his bed. Then he growled.

“What is it?” Stone asked.

Bob growled again, but then thought better of it and put his head down.

Stone got Gala's pistol from her bedside table and pumped a round into the chamber. He turned on the outside lights,
stepped out onto the terrace, the gun extended, and walked halfway around the house and back. No bears.

He went back inside, disarmed the pistol, and put it into his bedside drawer. He was more tired than he had thought, and still a little drunk, and he was out before Gala came to bed.