He took her by the shoulders. “Now, you’re not still concerned about that interview, are you?”
“I’m still a little shaken,” she said.
“Nothing a buck’s fizz won’t fix.”
That was the British name for a mimosa, equal parts champagne and orange juice.
“Order me breakfast, will you? Just melon and coffee.”
“And a buck’s fizz?”
“Oh, all right, maybe it will help. I’ll be right out.”
Billy had just finished his breakfast when a movement on the Grosvenors’ terrace caught his eye. He trained the binoculars and saw a tall man in a good suit stride out onto the terrace. A maid came, handed him a newspaper, and spoke briefly with him.
Billy opened the briefcase containing the sniper’s rifle that he had built for himself. He assembled it, then unscrewed the head of a fat golf umbrella and shook out the thirty-six-inch barrel that he had made for longer shots. It took only a moment to screw it in place. He rolled the room service tray table into the hallway, put the DO NOT DISTURB sign out, and locked the door. He pulled a chair from the desk to the window, set up a short tripod, then screwed the silencer into the barrel and sat down.
He had not quite got set up when Barbara appeared on the terrace in a dressing gown.
Barbara took her seat opposite Charles, who looked up and smiled at her. For some reason, it annoyed her; he was always smiling at her or kissing her forehead or patting her ass in a proprietary way. She had found all this charming at first, but it had palled as the marriage wore on.
“Busy day today?” Charles asked.
“A board meeting and lunch at the museum,” she said. “I may develop a cold, I haven’t decided.”
“How will they ever get on without you there?”
“How will they ever paper over the cracks in their budget without my checkbook at the ready? That’s all they care about — certainly not my opinion.”
Billy used the telescopic sight, now. He checked a flag on top of her building and it hung slack. He got comfortable and set the rifle on the tripod. This was looking good.
He sighted, and discovered that at least three-quarters of Barbara was behind her husband; he waited for one of them to move.
Barbara finished her melon. “I’m going to take my coffee and paper to bed,” she said. “I’m more comfortable there.” She got up and walked into the living room.
Billy had no more than an instant for a shot at her, but she was moving, and a sheet of newspaper on the table suddenly blew off with a puff of wind. Then she was inside, carrying her coffee and newspaper. He had missed his opportunity.
“Shit,” he said aloud.
His cell phone began to ring, and he answered it. “This is Billy Burnett.”
“Good morning, Billy, it’s Peter. How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thank you, Peter.”
“We’ve got that casting session you set up at three this afternoon. Will you be here for it?”
Billy had nearly forgotten. “Yes, Peter, I’ll be there after lunch.”
“See you then.”
Billy hung up and began dismantling the rifle. This was going to have to wait, probably until after the weekend.
50
Charles Grosvenor arrived at the Bentley dealership, went directly to his office, and called Hugh Gordon, Barbara’s newly hired publicist.
“Good morning, Charles,” the man said smoothly.
“Hugh, how are you coming on the editing of Barbara’s interview with that Hale woman?”
“Charles, I was going to call Barbara in a few minutes. I think I may have gotten the entire interview killed. The CEO at WSFO has told me that he has about decided not to run it.”
“‘About decided’? What does that mean?”
“It means he’s seriously thinking about not running it. Pam is beside herself, of course, but it’s her boss’s decision, and he’s leaning toward not running it.”
“How can he be pushed all the way?”
“That’s my job, Charles, and I’m working hard at it. I’ve told the man that Barbara feels she was sandbagged, which she was, and that if the second part of the interview runs, she will consider legal action. He knows that Barbara has deep pockets and that a successful lawsuit could break his company, and I’ve also been feeding his concerns about the reaction of the arts community in San Francisco, which depends so heavily on Barbara for large contributions. I think he has begun to see that the consequences of running the interview are unpredictable, to say the least.”
“Please be sure to convey all this directly to Barbara, Hugh. She’s very upset, and frankly, she’s driving me crazy. I need to get this business favorably settled and get her out of town. A change of scenery will do wonders for her.”
“Is she awake now?”
“She is, and she would be grateful for your call.”
“Then I’ll call her as soon as we hang up. By the way, Charles, I’m interested in talking with you about a Bentley.”
“Wonderful, Hugh. In which model does your interest lie?”
“The Flying Spur, I think.”
“Hold on just a moment, will you, Hugh?”
“Certainly.”
Charles pressed the hold button and checked his inventory on his computer, then he went back to the call. “Hugh, I have a new Flying Spur that’s being used as a press car at the moment. Why don’t you take it for the weekend and drive someplace beautiful? Down to Carmel or up to Napa?”
“I would be delighted,” Hugh said.
“The car is its own best salesman,” Charles said. “If you have any questions, make a note of them. We’ll have lunch early next week and I’ll answer them.”
“Wonderful, Charles.”
“You can pick up the car here anytime Friday afternoon. Or, if you’d prefer, I’ll have it delivered to you.”
“I’ll pick it up, I think.”
“See you then.”
Charles hung up feeling very much better. He could see an end to this interview business, and he had probably sold a car.
He called his service manager and instructed him to clean the car, and especially the upholstery. He wanted it to have that new-car smell when Hugh Gordon got into it.
He had to find a way to get Barbara happy again. He enjoyed being wealthy, and divorce would not be a good idea. He had seen the effect that rejection had on Barbara, and he did not wish to replace Ed Eagle as the object of her enmity.
Stone accepted an invitation to lunch with Bill Eggers, the managing partner of his law firm, Woodman & Weld. They met at the Four Seasons, where Eggers had a regular table.
Eggers ordered his usual martini, and Stone had mineral water. He had found that it was important to have a clear head during these seemingly informal lunches with Bill.
“I’m sorry we didn’t get to see more of you at the convention, Bill,” Stone said. “It got rather busy.”
“That’s quite all right, Stone. All the insiders I know are giving you credit for swinging the nomination to Kate Lee.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Stone said.
“Still, it makes you an important FOK.”
“A what?”
“Friend of Kate.”
“Ah, yes.”
“If she gets elected, of course. But right now, it looks like her election to lose. Have you seen her commercials?”
“Just one, on Morning Joe, earlier today.”
“I think they’re brilliant. Henry Carson, assuming he gets the Republican nomination, is going to look like the usual Republican stuffed shirt when compared to her. Hank makes Mitt Romney look like a hippie.”
Stone laughed.
“And it doesn’t hurt that half the men in America could imagine themselves in bed with Kate.”