Charlene stopped eating. “You mean like murdering Jennifer Harris to get her shares?”
“It crossed my mind.”
Charlene shook her head. “He doesn’t strike me as the type. I mean, if he doesn’t get Centurion, he’ll just move on to another project. He’s a businessman.”
“I hope you’re right,” Stone said. “That will make him easier to deal with.”
Manolo brought Stone a phone.
Stone picked it up. “Hello?”
“Stone, it’s Rick Barron. It’s been a while since you were out here; I thought you might like to take a look at Centurion this morning.”
“I’d like that, Rick,” Stone replied. “Any news on the cause of death of Jennifer Harris?”
“We’ll talk about that when I see you. Come to my office at eleven, and bring Dino; I’ll buy you both lunch.”
“See you then,” Stone replied, then hung up. “Dino, we’re invited to the studio by Rick Barron for a tour of the place and lunch. You available?”
“Do I look busy?” Dino asked.
7
The guard at Centurion’s main gate took Stone’s name, then placed a pass on the dashboard of his rented Mercedes and waved him through.
“How do we know where to meet Rick?” Dino asked.
“You forget, I’ve been here before,” Stone said. “His office will be in the main administrative building.” He made a turn, pulled into the parking lot, and left the car in a guest slot.
At the main reception desk they were directed to an elevator that opened into a paneled area and were met by a middle-aged woman in a smart business suit.
“Mr. Barrington? Mr. Bacchetti? I’m Grace Parsons, Mr. Barron’s executive assistant. Please follow me.”
They walked past half a dozen people working at desks and into a small sitting room, then through double doors into a large office, where Rick Barron was seated at his desk, talking on the telephone. He waved them to a seating area with comfortable chairs, finished his conversation, then joined them.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, sinking into an armchair. “I trust you slept well.”
“I did,” Dino replied. “I can’t speak for Stone.”
“Very well, thank you,” Stone said, ignoring Dino.
“I was just on the phone with a homicide detective of my acquaintance,” Rick said, “a Lieutenant Joe Rivera. Jennifer Harris’s death is being treated as a natural one, but Joe is going to see that the medical examiner takes a closer look.”
“I see we’re on the same page,” Stone said. “Do you think this Prince fellow is capable of murder to get what he wants?”
Rick shrugged. “Who knows?” He shifted positions and looked thoughtful. “I used to be a cop,” he said. “I was a homicide detective, too, until I got busted by a captain whose niece I was seeing.” He threw up his hands. “Oh, hell, whose niece I got pregnant. That’s how I got into the movie business.”
Stone frowned. “By getting a girl pregnant?”
“You might say that. It’s what got me demoted to sergeant and put back in a patrol car. It was patrol duty that got me into the movie business.”
“I’m not following,” Stone said.
“Of course not,” Rick said. “I was sitting in my patrol car one night in 1939, parked just off Sunset, trying to stay awake, when I heard the howl of the supercharger on a powerful automobile. I looked up just in time to see a Model A Ford coupe run a stop sign and start across Sunset, just in time for a Mercedes SS to plow into it and send it tumbling down the boulevard. The coupe came to rest upside down, and the Mercedes veered left into a high hedge.
“I checked the coupe first and found the female driver dea
d, then I ran over and checked on the Mercedes. The driver had been thrown out and into the hedge, and I thought I recognized him. Then it came to me: his name was Clete Barrow, and he was Centurion’s biggest star. He was conscious, but very drunk. He handed me a little black book and said, ‘Call Eddie Harris.’ I knew who Harris was, of course. I got him out of bed, and he told me to get Barrow out of there and to Centurion Studios before anybody else saw him.