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secretary.”
    The officer dialed a number, then handed the phone to Stone.
    “May I help you?” the woman asked in the voice reserved for handling nut cases.
    “Yes, my name is Stone Barrington; I’m an attorney from New York, and I represent Arrington Calder. I’d like to see Mr. Prince, please.”
    “Does Mr. Prince know you?”
    “Not yet,” Stone replied. “Please tell him what I said.”
    “Please hold.” She clicked off, and a string quartet kept Stone company. She came back on. “Let me speak to the officer,” she said.
    Stone handed the phone to the man, who listened, then hung up. He would either get an appointment or the bum’s rush.
    “Please go to the fortieth floor,” the man said, pointing at an elevator with a guard standing in front of it. “You’ll be met.” He waved to the guard.
    Stone walked to the elevator and looked for a button to push, but there were no buttons. The door closed, and the elevator rose fast enough to nearly buckle his knees. When the door opened a tall, very beautiful blonde in a black suit stood waiting in an open, carpeted area.
    “Mr. Barrington? I’m Carolyn Blaine. Please follow me.”
    “My pleasure,” Stone replied. The view of her from behind was very good. As they crossed the open area, lighted from both ends by floor-to-ceiling windows, Stone reflected that Prince had devoted several hundred square feet of very expensive office space to impressing his visitors.
    They passed a dozen offices with glass fronts and closed doors, then a large conference room where a dozen people sat around an acre of mahogany table. Somebody was exhibiting a large chart on a huge, flat-screen monitor. Finally they came to a pair of tall doors. Ms. Blaine placed her right palm on a glass plate and tapped a code into a keypad; then, with a click, one of the doors opened. Stone was faced with a pale mahogany partition containing a large Picasso from his Blue Period. Fifty to a hundred million, he thought. Blaine led him around the partition into a large room with a large desk, large windows, and large furniture. A large man in a pale yellow linen suit stood and began walking around the desk, talking, apparently to himself.
    “I have to go,” he said. “Get it done, then get back to me.” He removed a clear plastic microphone boom from his ear and tossed it onto the desk; then he held out a hand. “Mr. Barrington,” he said, “I wasn’t expecting you, though I knew, of course, that you were in town.” He was six-three or -four, of athletic build, and with a mop of blond hair that fell across his forehead. His hand was large and hard.
    Stone shook it. “How do you do, Mr. Prince?”
    “I do very well,” Prince replied. “Please come and have a seat,” he said, leading Stone toward a seating area, backed by a wall containing a single, very large Rothko oil, one of those that always reminded Stone of an atomic blast. “Would you like some refreshment?”
    “Perhaps some iced tea,” Stone replied.
    “Of course. Carolyn? I’ll have the same.”
    Stone watched Ms. Blaine walk toward a wet bar in the opposite room.
    “She’s quite something, isn’t she?” Prince asked.
    “Quite,” Stone said.
    “I think one should make a good first impression before making a first impression. What brings you to Los Angeles, Mr. Barrington?”
    “Come now, Mr. Prince,” Stone said. “You know why I’m here or you wouldn’t have seen me without an appointment.”
    Prince nodded. “Quite so. Maybe not even with an appointment,” he said. “How is Mrs. Calder these days?”
    “Healthy,” Stone replied.
    “Is she considering my offer?”
    “Anyone would consider a billion-dollar offer,” Stone replied, “but she has other business interests that she must attend to as well.”
    “Ah, yes,” Prince said, “Champion Farms. How is old Rex?”
    Stone wondered exactly how he knew about the racing farm deal. “Never met the gentleman,” he replied.
    Their ice tea arrived,