The Chairman (17 page)

Gillette and Whitman were meeting in the same conference room they had met in before. In all the time Gillette had known Whitman, they’d never met in his office. Gillette knew it was precautionary on Whitman’s part. As the chief investment officer of the country’s largest insurance company, Whitman was constantly in the middle of confidential transactions—often as the money backing one side of a hostile takeover. Whitman couldn’t afford to have outsiders see something sensitive on his desk or credenza and word of a big public transaction leaking out. So he always met with people in conference rooms.

“Thanks for getting together with me on such short notice, Miles.”

“No problem. What’s up?”

“I need your advice, and maybe your help.”

“What about?”

“Donovan’s widow.”

“Oh?” Whitman straightened up in his chair.

“She came by my office today to let me know that her stake in Everest was very important to her.”

Whitman spread his hands. “And this was a surprise to you? I don’t see the significance. Don’t take this the wrong way, Christian, but I’ve got to get out of here as soon as I can. I’m late for a—”

“Someone’s been telling her there are problems with the Everest portfolio.”

Whitman stopped talking and stared.

“So she’s concerned,” Gillette continued, glancing at Whitman’s bow tie. A conservative dark blue today.

“
Are
there problems with the portfolio?” asked Whitman quietly.

“You know how these things go,” Gillette answered. “Portfolio companies are like children. There are always problems.”

“Any
big
problems?”

“Not that I know of, but the widow’s spooked.”

“Tell her everything’s fine and send her a box of candy. There’s nothing she can really do about it.”

“She was talking about selling her piece of Everest.”

Whitman’s eyes flashed to Gillette’s.
“What?”

“Yeah. With that big fat 25 percent voting bloc.”

Whitman pointed at Gillette. “You can’t let her do that, you hear me? You
cannot
let that happen.”

“I hear you, Miles. Believe me. I don’t want to be out on my ass.”

Whitman settled back in his chair. “Right. Of course you don’t.” He glanced around. “Have you made any organizational changes yet?”

“What do you mean?”

“Promotions.”

“I’m going to promote Kyle and Marcie to managing partner. I told you that.”

“Yeah, sure. Anything else?”

Gillette thought for a moment. “Well, I’m going to make Cohen the chief operating officer. That’s really more an internal thing than anything else. So the troops know he’s in charge.”

“Oh? When does that take effect?”

“I just need to send out an e-mail tomorrow morning.”

Whitman nodded. “Good move. He seems like a decent guy. Harmless, but decent. That kind of thing will probably make him happy. Wouldn’t make you or me happy, but Cohen seems like the type who would appreciate it. And you want to keep turmoil to a minimum right now.”

Kathy Hays eased the car to a stop after slowly negotiating the long, twisting driveway through the dense woods. She’d taken an extra day and a 300-mile detour to visit her family in Pittsburgh. There she had told them how she was starting a new life in Los Angeles—which was what she’d been told to say—but this was about as far from L.A. as you could get.

She stepped out of the car and gazed through the night at the tiny house that she’d call home for the next six months. That’s what they’d said. Six months, then she could go on with her life. She shrugged as she started walking through the gloom toward the house, gravel crunching beneath her shoes. For what they were paying her—and what they were willing not to tell anyone—she could do anything for six months.

As she climbed the front steps to the porch, she reached into her purse for the house keys they’d given her, thinking about Troy Mason. How she’d gotten him fired. How he had a wife and a young child. It was awful. She shook her head. But they’d given her no choice. If she didn’t work with them, they’d have told her parents and all of her parents’ friends about her prostitution arrest in college at the University of New Mexico.

Kathy slid the key into the front door. So stupid. A one-time thing, but she’d solicited an undercover cop and he’d taken her straight to jail. She’d served ten days, paid a small fine, and that had been that—or so she’d thought. Until they approached her on the street that day to tell her they’d found out about it.

Kathy shuddered as she pushed the door open, thinking about what that news would do to her parents. Her mother was active in the neighborhood church and her father was suffering from high blood pressure. They’d always thought she’d been such an angel. And they were going to tell her parents that it hadn’t been a one-time thing at all, that she’d been doing it for money for months.

She flipped on the living room light and took a deep breath. A musty smell came to her nostrils. This was definitely the best outcome. Good money, no worries about her parents finding out anything, and Troy Mason would catch on somewhere else. And they’d promised her no one was going to get hurt.

Kathy put her purse down on the table by the door and glanced around the room. Six months. It couldn’t go fast enough.

She shivered as she stood a short distance down Fifth Avenue from the apartment building entrance, pulling the flimsy coat tightly around her body. She’d been waiting for three hours in the darkness—and the freezing cold. She’d never experienced anything like it. The trees across Fifth Avenue—at the eastern edge of Central Park—swayed from side to side against a sudden gust, and she tried pulling the coat even closer to her body.

A blue sedan eased to a stop in front of the apartment building and two men got out. One of them hurried up the steps and through the doorway, while the other remained outside, checking the sidewalk in both directions. It was almost ten o’clock and, because of the wind and cold, there was no one on the street. So he spotted her right away and moved directly toward her.

“Why are you standing here?” he demanded.

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“Who?”

“A friend.”

“Well, move off for now, miss,” he said politely.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Then she saw a limousine approaching. He had to be in there.

“Move off now,” the man ordered, his voice intensifying.

Isabelle took a few steps down the street, as if she were obeying, then spun around and tried to dart past him. But he caught her easily, gathering her slender body up in his huge arms and carrying her away from the entrance as Gillette’s limousine pulled to a stop.

She tried to break free, slapping the man about the face and shoulders, but he was too strong for her.

When they were far enough away from the entrance, he put her down and held her against the wall. Trying to be as gentle as possible, he pulled her wrists behind her back and held them together with one hand while he frisked her with the other.

“What’s this?” he demanded, yanking a steak knife from her coat pocket and holding it in front of her face.

“Protection.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” The man grabbed his radio phone. “Stiles!”

“Yeah.”

“Get Gillette inside! Fast!”

Reggie’s was the best pool hall in Harlem, best from the standpoint of the caliber of play. But it was a rough place, too. Much rougher than the place he’d been in the night of the funeral reception.

Gillette had worked his way into a game with a tough opponent, again able to convince the gate he was good for the five grand without actually putting it up. All he had on him was a pair of twenties for the cab home.

There was nothing left on the table but the eight and the cue ball. The eight was against one side, a few inches from a corner pocket, and the cue ball was all the way at the other end of the table. Lots of felt to cover, but it was an easy shot, one Gillette had executed a thousand times. Hit the side of the table and the eight at the same time and the eight would roll straight into the corner pocket. Game over, pay me five grand.

He leaned over the table, and lined up the shot, drawing the stick smoothly back through his fingers, seconds from the win.

But suddenly he needed something more. He could feel it. Sinking the shot and taking the five grand wasn’t going to do it for him. Not this time.

He hit down on the cue ball, shooting it across the table toward the eight with tremendous backspin. The eight slammed into the corner pocket, but the cue ball rolled back toward Gillette, toward the opposite corner pocket—and dropped in. Scratch. Game over, pay
him
five grand.

The crowd erupted and Gillette glanced up at his opponent. There was a broad smile on the man’s face.

“Five grand,” the man demanded over the din, sauntering toward Gillette. “Fork it up, rich boy.”

“Double or nothing,” Gillette offered.

“No way. I want five grand, and I want it now.”

Gillette glanced around. If he couldn’t convince the man to play again, things were going to get bad. A few of the man’s friends were in the crowd, guys who looked like they might enjoy beating up a Manhattan punk dressed in expensive clothes.

Gillette’s eyes flicked to the gate, who was fidgeting, nervous that he’d misjudged the rich boy’s ability to produce the dough and might end up having the shit kicked out of him, too. Gillette looked back at his opponent, feeling a rush in his head and chest. He’d put himself in a terrible jam—and it felt awesome.

“How about I give you two-to-one odds on ten grand?” Gillette suggested.

The man gave Gillette a curious look. “What do you mean?”

“If you win, I pay you twenty grand. If I win, I get ten grand. Netted against the five I just lost, you’d only owe me five if I win. Five to win twenty. That’s a damn good deal.” He could see he’d gotten the man’s attention.

“Four-to-one.”

People were so damn predictable when it came to money. “No. Two on ten. That’s it.”

“Let me see the money.”

Gillette pointed at the man’s friends. “You really think I’d risk getting into it with them?”

“People don’t usually carry that much cash around. I want to see it.”

“They do if they want to play big stakes pool in this place,” Gillette said calmly, “and live.” He could see the gears in the man’s head spinning as he tried to figure out what to do.

Thirty minutes later Gillette walked out of the pool hall onto 134th Street, five thousand dollars richer and very satisfied. As he emerged onto the sidewalk, he stopped and handed five hundred dollars to a woman pushing a baby carriage. Her eyes widened when she saw how much it was. Gillette simply nodded, then moved toward the curb, glancing around for a cab. It wasn’t going to be easy getting one up here. He might have to take the subway.

“Hey, you really thought you gave us the slip?”

Gillette spun around, startled. Relieved when he saw Quentin Stiles standing beside a black sedan parked twenty feet away.

Stiles walked up to Gillette deliberately and tapped him on the chest. “Don’t ever do that again,” he warned sternly. “You do and I drop this assignment. Understand?”

Gillette nodded, suddenly feeling very safe. “Okay.”

Stiles motioned toward the car. “Come on, let’s go. I don’t want you out on the street like this.” He took a few steps and looked back over his shoulder. “By the way, nice playing in there. You might even give me a game.”

15

Infatuation.
So powerful sometimes. Powerful enough to distract a man who prides himself on
never
being distracted.

“NO. I’M NOT GONNA LET you to go in there without me.” Stiles stood between Gillette and the hotel room door, arms crossed defiantly over his maroon turtleneck and a sharp wool blazer.

“Quentin, it’s all right. I’m telling you.”

“I said no.”

“She’s harmless. There’s no reason to be suspicious.”

“I’m
paid
to be suspicious.”

“And
I’m
the one paying you,” Gillette reminded Stiles sternly. “You better let me go in there.”

“You hired me to do a job, Christian. To protect you. I’ll do that job as I see fit, no matter what.”

“I could let you go.”

“You mean fire me?”

“Sure.”

“Fine,” Stiles retorted.

Gillette glanced down the hall. A maid was picking up towels off a cart outside a room she was cleaning, trying hard to seem like she wasn’t listening. “Gets you mad, huh?” He’d heard an edge in Stiles’s voice, and he liked it. He wanted to see Stiles lose that signature cool.

“I don’t get mad. Getting mad gets in the way.”

“Okay. Then this won’t get you mad. You’re fired.”

“Great. I’ll alert the media. But I’m still not letting you in that room alone. Besides, Cohen already paid me for a month.”

“I want my money back.”

“No refunds. It’s in the contract.”

“You’re making that up—”

“Page seven, paragraph two.”

“Cohen would never have agreed to that.”

“Well, he did.”

Gillette gritted his teeth. “Quentin, I don’t have time for this. I want to—”

Stiles put his hand on Gillette’s shoulder. “Christian, my guy found a knife on her last night when she was outside your building.”

“It was a steak knife, for Christ’s sake.”

“So what? That could do the job.”

“No. That could be paranoia.”

“We’ve been over this. You pay me to be paranoid.”

“Quentin, listen. Isabelle wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“You told me you just met her. How would you know?”

Stiles was right. “Look, she only came to this country a few weeks ago. She’s never been to New York City. Her sister probably told her the city was dangerous and that she should have some protection on her.”

“How did you meet Isabelle?” Stiles asked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Everything matters if I’m going to protect you. I keep telling you that. You
have
to buy into it if I’m going to keep you alive.”

“I think you use that line as a device.”

“A device?”

“So you can pry.”

“
That’s ridiculous.
I would never—”

“All right, all right,” Gillette muttered, exasperated. “I work with Isabelle’s family down in New Jersey. With her sister and brother-in-law. That’s where I was coming back from the other night when I was attacked outside Hightstown.”

“What does ‘work with’ them mean? You do business with them?”

“Not exactly.”

“What, then?”

“I’ve helped them.” Gillette suddenly realized that he’d never told anyone that, and it felt good to say it. Of course, he knew he’d exact a price someday. So it wasn’t like Jose was getting anything free.

“How exactly have you
helped
them?”

“Financially. I moved them out of the Bronx and bought them a house in a good school district in central Jersey.”

“Oh, I get it. They’re like your personal social project. It makes you feel better about all that money you make.” Stiles shook his head. “You’ve got that knight-in-shining-armor complex.”

Gillette glanced up. The edge in Stiles’s voice had sharpened, making him wonder about Stiles’s background. “Maybe I do,” he admitted. He’d never thought about it that way. “But so what?”

“It could bring you down.”

“No way.”

“Yeah, it could.”

Gillette checked his watch. Seven thirty. Tom McGuire was going to be at Everest in an hour to talk about buying McGuire & Company. He had to move if he was going to be on time.

“Let me go in there and check it out first,” Stiles suggested, aware of the time constraint. “If everything’s okay, you go in. I’ll stay by the door. Inside the suite, but you’ll never know I’m there.”

“You’ll scare the hell out of her.”

Stiles raised one eyebrow. “Why? Because I’m a big black guy?”

Gillette stared at Stiles for several moments, then broke into a wide grin. “Yep.”

Stiles grinned back, then stepped to the side and pointed at the door. “Knock.”

Isabelle opened the door immediately—as though she’d been waiting on the other side. She was wearing a white, terry-cloth robe that fell close to her ankles and had a script “W”—for Waldorf—on one lapel. Her hair was down and wet, presumably because she’d just stepped out of the shower. And she smelled wonderful, like a rose garden on a summer evening. He took a long look at her. She was so gorgeous.

“Buenos dias, Isabelle.”

She smiled up at him, her eyes dancing. “Hello, Christian.”

She seemed happy to see him this morning. It was all over her face. “This is Quentin Stiles.” He motioned toward Stiles. “Quentin works for me. He needs to spend a few minutes with you before I come in.” Fear flashed across Isabelle’s face, and Gillette reached for her hand to reassure her. “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “It’ll be fine.”

Stiles moved beside Gillette. “Ma’am.” He pointed down the short hallway toward the suite’s bedroom. “Please go sit on the bed,” he instructed. “I’ll be there in a minute. And you stay where you are,” he said to Gillette as he moved past.

For several minutes Stiles searched the suite. “Okay,” he called when he didn’t find anything. “You can come in.”

Gillette moved quickly down the hallway and into the bedroom. Isabelle was standing by the end of the bed.

“I’ll be at the door,” Stiles said quietly as they passed. “You need me, you yell.”

Gillette glanced at Isabelle’s slender frame. “Somehow I think I’ll be able to take care of myself.”

“Still.”

“Quentin’s very good at what he does,” he said to her when Stiles was out of sight. “But sometimes he goes a little overboard.”

She shrugged. “It’s okay. He’s just protecting you. I understand.”

“Please sit down. Was everything all right last night?”

“Wonderful,” she answered, sitting down on the end of the mattress.

After Stiles had reported the incident outside the apartment building and Gillette knew it was Isabelle they had detained, he’d instructed Stiles to put her up in the Waldorf for the night. And to tell her he’d stop by in the morning. Gillette had called Selma to tell her everything was all right, then left his apartment to play pool.

“I’ve never stayed in a place as nice as this,” she told him as he sat down beside her on the bed. “It’s incredible. They brought me these little chocolates last night before I went to sleep, and this bed is so comfortable. I’ve never slept on a mattress this soft. I feel like a princess.”

Gillette studied her face for a few minutes. Physically she was a mature, beautiful woman. But she was still a child in many ways, too.

“Why did you come to the city last night?” he asked.

“To see you. I was hoping we could have that dinner you asked me to.”

“Why didn’t you just call me?” The robe fell open as she crossed her legs at the knee, exposing her thighs. Gillette glanced at her smooth brown skin for a moment, then away, not wanting to offend her. Aware that she’d noticed his glance. “Why were you waiting outside my building?”

“I didn’t think you’d take my call,” Isabelle murmured, looking down. “After the way I acted the other night.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t really change my mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wanted to say ‘yes’ the other night when you were in New Jersey.”

“Then why
didn’t
you?”

Isabelle hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Come on,” he urged. “Tell me.”

She took a deep breath. “I hear Selma and Jose talk about you all the time. How you went to really good schools, how you’re an important person, how your father was a senator, how rich you are.”

Gillette’s dark eyebrows furrowed. “How do they know all that?” He’d made a point not to tell Jose and Selma much about himself, to stay as anonymous as possible. Maybe Stiles wasn’t so paranoid after all. “I never told them about my father or where I went to school, and certainly not how much I’m worth.”

“I think you mentioned the name of your firm to Jose one time. Selma went on the website and checked it out. Your background is on there, I think. I don’t know how she found out who your father was.”

Now that Isabelle mentioned it, he remembered telling Jose about Everest once. So the part about his background made sense. Everyone had a brief biography posted under the “Staff” section of the Everest website, and all the news clippings about his father’s fatal accident would have mentioned children. If Selma had done a general Internet search of his name, she would have found out about his father. And, so far, he’d bought two houses for them. They would assume he was rich if he could do that.

“So you’ve heard them talk about me? So what?”

“Why would you want to spend time with someone like me?” Isabelle asked directly. “When you could spend time with more interesting people. People you have more in common with.”

“I think you’re
very
interesting,” Gillette answered. “Now we just need to get to know each other a little. Right?”

“Why do you find me so interesting?”

“You left your country to come to a place you’d never been. That took a lot of courage. I find courage interesting.” He smiled. “And any woman who hangs around my front door packing a knife has to be, well,
very
interesting.”

She put her face in her hand, embarrassed. “I’m sorry about that.”

He gazed at her face. So beautiful.

“The second reason I didn’t say ‘yes’ the other night,” she spoke up, “was that I didn’t think Selma or Jose would want me to go with you. I thought they’d be angry if we went out.”

“Why?”

Isabelle shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe because if we didn’t work out they’d be afraid it would make their relationship with you bad. When I told Selma you asked me out and I said no, she got mad. Jose did, too.” She folded her hands on her bare knees. “So, here I am.”

“Okay, but I need to know why you had that knife in your pocket last night.”

She shook her head. “Pretty silly, huh? I’m sorry about that, but I’ve heard a lot of bad things about New York City, that people rob you on the street in broad daylight with guns.”

“A knife wouldn’t do much good if you’re being robbed by someone with a gun,” Gillette pointed out.

“
Sí,
I guess I just wanted some kind of protection. It made me feel safer to have it with me.”

“You hear that, Quentin?” Gillette called out loudly. They couldn’t see Stiles from where they were sitting. “She just felt safer having it with her.”

“Yeah, yeah,” came the response.

Gillette winked at Isabelle. “And?” he called back.

“And we’ll talk about it later,” Stiles answered gruffly.

Gillette took her hand. “Well, look, the dinner invitation is still open. You’ll probably have to go through a metal detector and be frisked before Quentin will let you within a hundred feet of me again,” he said so Stiles could hear, “but if you’re willing to deal with all that, I’d like to take you.”

Isabelle turned and put her arms around him. “I’d love it.”

He stiffened, uncomfortable with the hug. “How about tonight?” he asked, gently pulling her arms from around his neck. “You can stay in the city today. I’ll have someone come by later this morning to take you shopping. Would you like that?”

“Shopping. Oh, no, please,” Isabelle said, laughing. “I don’t think I could handle all that torture.” She looked up at him, her laugh fading. “I know this is obvious, but I’ll say it anyway. You and I have different color skins. Is that a problem for you?”

“Not at all.” He started to touch her cheek with the back of his fingers, then stopped. “Is it for you?”

“You still salty?”

Gillette looked up. He’d been jotting down notes on a small pad—making lists. It seemed like he was always making lists—and they kept getting longer and longer.
“Salty?”
He was headed to Everest to meet with McGuire, and Stiles was sitting beside him in the back of the Town Car. It was a different car than the one he’d ridden home in last night. Stiles was rotating vehicles constantly, having them searched meticulously before the driver opened a door or turned the key. Making it as hard as possible for anyone to plant another bomb. “What does ‘salty’ mean?”

“You know, angry.”

“About what?”

“About me searching Isabelle’s room. And her.”

“How thoroughly did you search her? Did you make her take her robe off?”

Stiles held his hands up. “Of course not.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Gillette teased.

“Hey, I’d never do something like that.”