56
Kelli Keane dressed for the Immi Gotham concert. She had been saving her best dress for the event, and she thought she looked sensational, while remaining entirely professional. The image in the mirror was very reassuring.
What was not reassuring, however, was Hamish’s advice to her on the phone earlier. He wanted her to leave the hotel because of a likely disturbance to come; he had already left the hotel—left the country, in fact, and without checking out. This didn’t make any sense.
He had not actually used the word “terrorist,” but “disturbance” sounded to her like British understatement. She needed to tell somebody about this, she reckoned, but she
didn’t fancy walking up to some security guard and trying to explain to him, or his boss, that a slight acquaintance had warned her to leave the hotel because of a possible “disturbance.”
She checked her makeup one last time. Stone Barrington: he was plugged into everything at the hotel; he’d know what to do with this information.
She grabbed her clutch bag, left her room, and got into her electric cart, then drove to the reception building and walked to the building behind it that she understood to be Stone’s cottage. She rang the doorbell and waited, then rang it again.
A man in a white-jacketed uniform finally answered the door. “Yes, may I help you?”
“Yes, I’m Kelli Keane, from Vanity Fair magazine, and I’d like to speak to Stone Barrington.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Barrington isn’t in right now,” the man said.
“When do you expect him?”
“Probably not until later tonight, certainly not until after the concert. He’s having drinks at the presidential cottage right now, and they’re all going to the concert together.”
“That’s just across the street, behind this house?”
“Yes, ma’am, but you’re not going to get in there without an invitation. The Secret Service will see to that.”
“Thanks very much,” Kelli said, and left the cottage. She walked around to the street behind and looked at the presidential cottage. Two men in dark suits stood at the door.
She went back to the cart. She wasn’t about to get into it with the Secret Service; maybe she’d see Stone at the concert. Perhaps she should just go straight there now; it was getting dark, and her press pass didn’t give her reserved seating.
She drove down to the Arrington Bowl and found a parking spot, then wandered in with the crowd, which was streaming in in great numbers, all in formal dress. The place was beautiful, spread out in a fan shape with a lovely band shell as if from some gigantic scallop.
The orchestra was beginning to take their seats, now, and a concert grand piano stood at center stage. Tune-up sounds wafted from the pit. Kelli looked at her watch: seven P.M. They would be starting any minute.
She looked over her shoulder and up to a private box near the top of the seating area. The president and first lady were entering and finding seats, while a file of others followed them. She saw Stone among them.
She ran up the stairs to the top of the Bowl and around the seats toward the presidential box. She could already see a man and a woman with pins in their lapels moving to head her off.
Kelli stopped. “My name is Kelli Keane, I’m from Vanity Fair magazine.”
“Yes?” the man said.
“It’s extremely important that I speak to Mr. Stone Barrington, who is sitting in the presidential box.”
The man and the woman exchanged a glance. “Will you come this way, please?” the woman said, slipping her hand under Kelli’s arm. They led her to one side of the box and out of its view. “Now,” the man said, “please let me see your press pass.”
Kelli dug the pass from her bag and handed it over.
“And who was it you wanted to see?”
“Mr. Stone Barrington.”
“What is the nature of your business?”
Another man joined them from the direction of the box, then just stood and listened.
“It’s a personal matter,” Kelli said. “If you could please just ask Mr. Barrington to step over here for a moment.”