Stone Barrington 36 - Scandalous Behavior (22 page)

Craven spoke up. “Mostly the information that appeared in a West Coast magazine a couple of years ago. The writer was later killed in a suspicious car crash on the freeway. There’s a new movie called
Hell’s Bells
which is supposed to be about Calhoun, but I haven’t seen it yet.”

“That sums up what I know, too,” Madison said. “I haven’t seen the movie yet, either.”

“Okay, put together a team of you and four others, and start by going to the movies. Get them copies of the magazine piece, too, and read our file on Calhoun. We need to put this guy out of business.”

“Yes, sir,” they both said.

Walking down the hall together, Madison said, “You know, this one might actually be fun.”

“Yeah,” Craven replied, “and I’ll bet the movie will bring some complaints out of the woodwork.” Their offices were across the hall from each other, and they split up and went to work.

—

D
r. Don Beverly Calhoun was napping on his living room sofa after a heavy lunch, when the phone rang. “Yes?” he asked groggily.

“Dr. Calhoun,” the doorman said. “A bunch of policemen are on the way up to your apartment. They didn’t wait for me to buzz you.”

“Thanks.” Calhoun hung up and struggled to his feet. He had just time to splash some water on his face before the doorbell rang.

He opened it to find four men and two women standing in the hallway. One of the men handed him a document. “Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun, I am Lieutenant Marx of the New York State police, and this is a search warrant for these premises. Stand aside, please.”

“I’d like to call my attorney,” Calhoun said, unmoving.

Marx brushed past him. “You do that,” he said. “All right, you two take the bedrooms, you two do the study, and we’ll start in the living room. Look for a safe.”

Calhoun went to the kitchen and called his attorney. “The police are here with a search warrant,” he said.

“I’m not your attorney anymore, remember? Find yourself a new one, and don’t expect a referral from me.” He hung up.

Calhoun called his accountant. “I need a referral to a first-rate criminal lawyer,” he said.

“Theodore Saxon,” the accountant said, and gave him a phone number.

Calhoun called it and got Saxon on the phone. “The police
are in my apartment with a search warrant,” he said. “I want to hire you with immediate effect.”

“Who are you?” Saxon asked.

“I am the leader of a religious group called the Chosen Few.”

“Oh, yes, I saw the movie.”

“It’s full of lies.”

“I’m sure it is. Where are you?”

Calhoun gave him the address.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, do nothing to obstruct the police, or they’ll arrest you.” He hung up.

Calhoun sat down at the kitchen table. He could see the police working in the living room, and they were pretty much tearing the place apart. He was glad that he had removed his two handguns to his storage unit in the building’s basement.

A policeman came into the kitchen. “We’re going to need the combination to your safe,” he said.

“My attorney will be here shortly,” Calhoun replied. “Ask me when he gets here.”

The cop went back into the living room, then a female officer entered the kitchen. “You might want to go out for a cup of coffee,” she said, then started opening drawers.

—

T
he doorbell rang, and Calhoun went to answer it. A short, stocky man with black hair and a matching Van Dyke beard stood there. “I am Theodore J. Saxon,” he said, holding out a hand. “Call me Ted.”

“Come in, Ted.”

“Where are the police?”

“Everywhere,” Calhoun replied, waving an arm.

Saxon marched into the living room. “Hold it!” he shouted. The police all stopped what they were doing and looked at him. “I am Dr. Calhoun’s attorney. I want to see the search warrant.”

“Oh, I have that,” Calhoun said, taking it from his pocket and handing it to him.

Saxon scanned the document. “Proceed,” he said to the cops. “It’s in order.” They went back to work.

Shortly, Lieutenant Marx entered the room. “I’m going to need the combination to your safe and the keys to your basement storage unit.”

“Give them to him,” Saxon said.

Calhoun gave him the combination and retrieved the keys to the storage unit from a kitchen drawer.

When the police walked away, Saxon took Calhoun aside. “What are they going to find in the safe?”

“Eight hundred and thirty-four deeds to houses and apartments and eight hundred thousand dollars in cash, more or less.”

“How big is the fucking safe?”

“About six feet tall. It’s a Fort Knox.”

“What’s in the storage unit?”

“Old files and two handguns.”

“Are you licensed to possess handguns in New York State or New York City?”

“Ah, not exactly.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Right.”

The policeman appeared at the door and crooked a finger at Calhoun, who followed him into the study, where they had opened the safe.

“What is all of that stuff?” the cop asked, pointing.

“Deeds to real estate,” Calhoun replied. “The green stuff is cash.”

“How much cash?”

“Eight hundred thousand dollars, give or take.”

“Nothing wrong with either of those,” Saxon said. “Please close the safe and forget the combination.”

To Calhoun’s surprise, the cops did so.

Shortly, Lieutenant Marx appeared with two Glock 9mm pistols and held them up. “Let me see your license for these.”

Saxon held up a finger. “Lieutenant, the Supreme Court of the United States has ruled that citizens have the right to possess firearms in their homes, and the storage locker is an extension of Dr. Calhoun’s home. That trumps New York City and State laws to the contrary. It’s not as though he was carrying them on his belt.”

Marx handed Calhoun the two weapons, went into the living room, and consulted with the other officers. He came back to Calhoun. “Thank you for your cooperation.” He turned toward the living room. “Awright, we’re outta here.” The officers trooped out of the apartment and closed the door behind them.

Calhoun looked around the living room. “What a mess!”

“Listen, pal,” Saxon said, “you’ve still got your deeds and cash and your handguns, too. Anything else concerning you?”

“Not at the moment,” Calhoun said.

Saxon handed him a card. “I’ll send you a bill. You might want to retain me for future legal services. I’m on call twenty-four/seven.”

“How much?”

“Fifty thousand dollars against fees, and I’ll throw in today.”

“Done,” Calhoun said, and went looking for his checkbook.

42

S
tone was having lunch the following day when Dino called.

“How was your flight?”

“A piece of cake. I slept most of the way. Hey, listen, I got a call from the New York State cops this morning. They went into Dr. Don’s apartment with a search warrant yesterday and tore it up pretty good. They found the deeds to over eight hundred houses and apartments and eight hundred grand in cash in his safe, plus two handguns in the basement storage unit.”

“Wonderful,” Stone said.

“Not so wonderful. A slick lawyer named Theodore J. Saxon showed up, cited the Supreme Court ruling on guns, and they left empty-handed.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. One of Arthur Steele’s insurance
companies insures all those residences, and Arthur sent the info to the director of the FBI yesterday. You might give the director a call and give him the location of the deeds.”

“Yeah, I can do that. What’s the deal with the deeds, anyway?”

“They apparently belong to Calhoun’s followers. It’s got to be some kind of scam.”

“No doubt. I’ll call the director right now.”

—

A
gents June Craven and Donna Madison were holding a meeting in a conference room at FBI headquarters.

“The director got word this morning that Dr. Don has the deeds to all those houses in a safe in his New York apartment.”

An agent held up a document. “I got one of the owners to fax me his contract,” he said. “What Dr. Don did is pretty smart: he refinanced all those houses and paid off the old mortgages. Since most of these people are in their fifties and sixties, they have a lot of equity, and if any of them leave the Chosen Few or displease Dr. Don, he can foreclose and they forfeit their equity.”

“That can’t be legal,” Craven said.

“Don’t be so sure. There’s no evidence of duress, the property owners did it because they hold Dr. Don in high esteem.”

“I’ve talked to a couple of dozen of these people, and I’ve found six who are disenchanted but are afraid to leave the cult, for fear of the wrath of Dr. Don.”

“Sounds like the basis for a class-action suit,” Madison said.

“Yeah, but we’re not in that business.”

“I’ll bet we know a lawyer who’d be glad to take the case.”

“You have somebody in mind?” Craven asked.

“There’s this New York attorney called Stone Barrington, who’s with Woodman & Weld. His son, Peter Barrington, is the director of
Hell
’
s Bells
. How about I put a flea in his ear?”

“I can’t think of anything wrong with that,” Craven said.

“I’ve got his cell number,” Madison replied.

—

S
tone hung up his phone and called Herbie Fisher at Woodman & Weld, in New York.

“Hey, Stone, you still in England?”

“I may never come back. I’ve got some business for the firm, though, and I think you’re just the guy to handle it.” He took Herbie through the saga of Dr. Don.

“Yeah, I saw the movie—loved it.”

“I’ll tell Peter. I’ve got a list of six disaffected members of the Chosen Few who want their houses back.” Stone read him the list. “Call them and see if they’d like to sign on to a class-action suit, and if all of them don’t want to do it, Arthur Steele has a list of all of them, and you’ll have to start cold-calling them.”

“I’m on it,” Herbie said.

“You and I will co-represent,” Stone said. “I want my name on the suit, so Dr. Don will know I’m not through with him.”

“No problem. Call me for lunch when you get back, if you ever do. I’m buying.” Herbie hung up.

Stone called Dino and told him what was afoot.

“Oh, yeah, I like the sound of that,” Dino said, chuckling.

“See if you can think of a few other ways to rattle Dr. Don’s cage.”

“I’ll plumb the depths of my devious mind.”

“It would be interesting to know if Dr. Don has an automobile in New York City.”

“I’ll bet he does.”

“Maybe he has a few unpaid parking tickets?”

“Could be.”

“Then you could introduce Dr. Don to the intricacies of recovering a towed vehicle from the city pound.”

“I’ll bet that would take up a day or two of his time.”

“Let’s find out.”

Back at Dr. Don’s apartment, he and his wife were cleaning up after the cops when he found a fistful of paper. “What the hell are these?” he demanded, showing them to Cheree.

“Oh,” she said, “those are just parking tickets. They’re years behind on collecting—don’t worry about it.”

43

D
r. Don was reviewing his e-mails in the account available to his members when he got a jolt.

Dear Dr. Don, I got a call this morning from a man who said he was an FBI agent, asking about my mortgage. He wanted to know when I took it out, how much it was for, the interest rate and the amount of the payments. He also wanted to know if I entered into the arrangement voluntarily and if I knew that, if I left the Chosen Few, I would forfeit my house to you. Is that true? If so, it’s a disturbing development.

He found three more similar e-mails in his in-box. Cold sweat ensued. He sent one answer to them all:

I want you to know that everything in your mortgage is legal and proper and that you have nothing to worry about. The FBI is just harassing me through you. I’ve come to expect it, and I’m sorry they bothered you.