“And who is ‘Billy Barnett’?”
“A Hollywood producer.”
Fahd frowned. “A movie producer?”
“That’s right. The producer tried to claim he wasn’t the man he was looking for.”
“You recorded the conversation?”
“Yes. It’s on this memory stick.”
“I can listen to it here?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
The hacker plugged the memory stick into Fahd’s computer. He opened the file of Lance’s calls, and played back the last one.
Fahd said, “What are you doing about the movie producer?”
“When the director called him, I tuned in to his cell phone frequency.”
“You can do that?”
“Yes. Do you want me to explain how?”
“No. You’re telling me I can listen in to his calls from my computer?”
“Yes.”
“Show me how.”
The hacker plugged in Billy Barnett’s phone number, and opened the channel. “He’s not on the phone at the moment, but if he makes a call, you can hear it by clicking this tab.”
“Good job. This could be important.”
“Yes. I will write it up in detail.”
“No need. You have reported it to me. I will take it from here.”
“Of course, sir. It is your project. I will merely report the facts.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“It’s no trouble.”
Fahd frowned. It was trouble from his point of view. He had his own agenda, and there were certain things he did not wish known, even by his own minions.
This was one of them.
Fahd nodded. “Who else did you show this to?”
“No one. I put it on the memory stick and came right in.”
“Good job. Show me again how I access his phone.”
The hacker hunched over the computer.
Fahd pushed a button on his desk.
A short, squat man in a drab brown suit glided in the door on little cat feet. He stepped up behind the hacker, deftly removed a handgun from a shoulder holster under his coat, and shot him in the head.
The hacker collapsed on the keyboard.
Fahd flinched. He was afraid the man might hit the wrong key and close the program. But the hacker slid off the keyboard and slumped to the ground.
“I trust you’ll deal with the body,” Fahd said to Aziz.
Aziz didn’t answer. He never spoke. Impassive as ever, he picked up the body of the hacker, threw him over his shoulder, and carried him out.
Fahd Kassin sat at the computer and looked at the screen the hacker had opened for him.
Fahd shook his head. “Billy Barnett.”
3.
TEDDY FAY DROVE onto the back lot of Centurion Studios. The guard at the gate waved him in. Teddy was a well-known figure on the movie set. As producer Billy Barnett, he was a man of some importance. He even had his own parking space, though he still felt funny using it.
Teddy let himself in through the soundstage. Nothing was filming that day, and it was faster than walking around to the main entrance. Teddy made his way down the corridor to the production offices.
Peter Barrington was in his. The young director was in the earliest stages of preproduction for his next feature. The film hadn’t even been cast yet.
Rita, his assistant, buzzed him over the intercom. “Billy Barnett’s here.”
“Send him in.”
Billy found Peter at his desk huddled over a few pages of script.
“Working on a rewrite?” Teddy said.
Peter looked up and grinned. “Hi, Billy. The changes aren’t for me. We’re auditioning Liz Hampton for a role. She’s a little long in the tooth for it, as written.”
“You’d rewrite the part for her?”
“I would if we got her. It wouldn’t hurt the story any, and she’s one of those actresses who’s box-office gold for good reason. People like to see her name in the credits because they know it means a good performance.”
“Yeah. I notice there’s no part for character actor Mark Weldon in the movie.”
“There really isn’t,” Peter said. “I was hoping you’d be content with producing this one.”
“I had another idea. I don’t think you’re getting all the credit you deserve. I would think ‘produced, written, and directed by’ would go a long way toward establishing you as an auteur.”
Peter grinned. “Yeah, right. And maybe I’ll do hair and makeup, too. Trust me, writing and directing is enough. So can I count on you?”
Teddy grimaced. “The thing is, I kind of have to do a favor.”
“For a friend?”
“Not exactly. But it needs to be done. Can I have some time off?”
“You know you can.”
“I don’t want to presume.”
“Billy. After everything you’ve done for me and this studio, you can do anything you want.”
“Well, I might like to try my hand at music director.”
“Except that.”
“How about caterer?”
Peter grinned. “Go on. Get out of here.”
4.
STONE BARRINGTON WAS having a drink in his office with Dino Bacchetti. As one might expect in a conversation between one of New York City’s top attorneys and the New York City police commissioner, weighty matters were being discussed. At the moment, the bone of contention was where to have dinner.
In the past, it was always Elaine’s. Since it closed, the choice was often Patroon, but tonight Dino was lobbying for Peter Luger, the famed Brooklyn steakhouse.
“I don’t think so,” Stone said.
“What do you have against Peter Luger?” Dino wanted to know.
“I have nothing against Peter Luger. It’s too late to get a reservation.”
“I’m the New York City police commissioner. Do you really think I can’t get a reservation?”
“Wouldn’t that be abuse of power?”
“Absolutely. It’s the only reason I took the job.”