The Chairman (30 page)

“Besides Dominion, what else do you think is going on at Everest, Mrs. Donovan?” Gillette asked.

She glanced past him, admiring a painting of the estate hanging over the fireplace. “I understand that there are other problems with the Everest portfolio companies.”

“Did Paul Strazzi tell you that?”

“He and one other person.”

“Was it Senator Stockman?” The widow’s eyes raced back to Gillette’s, and he had his answer. “Did Strazzi actually show you any evidence of problems with our portfolio companies? Did he give you any specifics?”

The widow hesitated. “No.”

“Mrs. Donovan, what I’m about to tell you will come as a shock, but you have to hear it.”

“It doesn’t matter what you tell me, Christian. I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Strazzi manipulated the Dominion stock crash,” Gillette kept going. “With Stockman’s help. It was all done so you’d sell your stake at a discount. Even Strazzi couldn’t pay you what your stake is really worth, which is over four billion, according to Ben Cohen. Even Paul Strazzi doesn’t have that kind of money for one investment. He had to figure out a way to drive the price down.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“One of the people who reports to me at Everest was in on it, Mrs. Donovan. I confirmed that this afternoon.”

“No—”

“You’ve got to listen to me,” he said firmly. “You’re making a huge mistake. As soon as the market figures out what these guys did, Dominion’s stock price is going to come screaming back. You’ll regret this.”

She closed her eyes. Her head was shaking badly. “I don’t know anything about problems with loan portfolios, and, to tell you the truth, I don’t care. All I know is that the value of my Dominion investment is worth almost nothing.” She put a hand on her frail chest. “I spoke to my lawyer a little while ago, and he says there shouldn’t be any problems. Everything is on track. Monday afternoon I’ll have $2 billion in my account. Real dollars, Christian. Not a piece of paper that says I own a fund I don’t understand.”

Gillette sat in his office, just the banker’s lamp on. It was nine o’clock. He was supposed to be meeting Isabelle for a late dinner at his apartment at ten. He should have been looking forward to it, but he was distracted. He’d been so certain he could change the widow’s mind.

“Sounds like the widow is pretty set on what she’s going to do,” Cohen said.

“Yeah,” Gillette agreed softly.

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, just so you know, I checked out these guys at Coyote Oil,” Cohen said. “I talked to their backers in Switzerland.”

Gillette looked up. “That fast? Lefors told me you were calling them tomorrow night. Their Monday morning.”

“Um, I didn’t want to wait.”

“So they were in the office on a weekend?”

Cohen shook his head. “No. Hansen gave me their cell phone numbers. I talked to the lead guy in Europe. We had a conference call with him and some of his subordinates a few hours ago.”

Gillette checked his watch. “Jesus Christ, what time was it over there?”

“Midnight.”

“They must really want to do this deal.”

“They do,” Cohen agreed. “Turns out they’ve got some big insurance companies from Norway and Sweden in on the deal, people who understand the oil and gas business very well.”

“Which ones?”

“I’ve got the names in my office. I’ll get them to you Monday.”

“So you’re satisfied this all checks out?” Gillette asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Cohen said enthusiastically. “We talked to senior people in the investment arms of each of the big insurance companies, too. They’re ready to pay us what we want. The deal can be done in thirty days.”

“Lefors was on the calls, too?”

“What?”

“You said, ‘
We
talked to the senior people.’ ”

“I did?”

“Yeah.”

“No, Lefors wasn’t on the calls. It was just me.”

“Oh.” Gillette glanced around the office and shook his head. “It doesn’t add up, Ben. Why would Coyote overpay like that? Especially with such sophisticated backers.”

“Who cares, Christian? Let’s just get it done.”

The phone rang, distracting Gillette from a nagging thought, one that had been running through his mind ever since the Coyote Oil executives had visited. He picked up the receiver, not recognizing the number on the screen. “Hello.”

“Christian.”

“Yes?”

“It’s Miles.”

“Hi, how are you?”

“Fine. But Paul Strazzi isn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was found dead an hour ago in a remote section of Central Park. He was murdered.”

“Murdered?”
Gillette asked. Cohen was studying him intently.

“Yes. Shot to death.”

“Jesus. Do the police know who did it?”

“No. They aren’t even saying if it was a robbery or some kind of hit.”

“What the hell was Strazzi doing in a remote section of Central Park?” Gillette asked.

“Jogging, probably. He was religious about it. He and I talked about it at lunch last week.”

“Well, then it can’t be a random robbery. I doubt anyone would think he was carrying much cash if he was jogging. It must have been a hit.”

“I wouldn’t rush to that conclusion,” Whitman cautioned. “Hell, it could have been a gang. Sometimes they kill people indiscriminately. What’s it called, ‘Wilding’?”

“What time was Strazzi killed?” Gillette asked.

“I don’t know.” Whitman was silent for a few moments. “So, Christian, how are you going to celebrate?”

Celebrating another man’s death. A strange thought. “I’m not going to celebrate, Miles.” Not even if he was trying to have me killed, Gillette thought to himself.

“You know what I mean,” Whitman said softly.

“I’m having a late dinner with a friend tonight.”

“Really? Where are you going?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“You know there’s this new place down in SoHo called Nom de Plume. It’s a writer and actor hangout. You’re bound to see celebrities. I know the guy who owns it. It’s next to impossible to get in there, especially on a Saturday night, but I can call him and get you a table.”

“Thank, Miles, but I—” Another line on Gillette’s phone rang. “I’ve got to take this,” he said recognizing the number.

“Let me know if you want me to get you in there.”

“Thanks.” Gillette picked up the other line. “Hello.”

“Christian.”

The voice was almost inaudible. “Yes.”

“It’s Ann Donovan.”

She must have heard the news about Strazzi, too. “Hello, Mrs. Donovan,” he said calmly.

“Did you hear?” she asked meekly.

“About?”

“Paul Strazzi.”

“Yes, I did.”

“My lawyers just called because Strazzi’s lawyers called them. The deal with me is off,” she said, her voice shaking. “I hope I didn’t offend you in any way when you were here this evening.”

Now wasn’t the time to gloat. “Of course not.” Now was the time to build a bridge. “I heard what you were saying, Mrs. Donovan. You aren’t comfortable having so much of your net worth tied up in Everest. You want to diversify, which is smart. And I think I can help if you want me to.”

“Thank you, Christian,” she said, her voice growing stronger.

“But you have to work with me.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she agreed, relief obvious in her tone. “Of course.”

“No negotiating behind my back.”

“No, no. From now on I’ll call you right away if
anyone
approaches me. Okay?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want.” He paused. “Good night, Mrs. Donovan. I’ll be in touch with you soon.”

“Good night, Christian. Thank you for your understanding. And, again, I hope you weren’t upset with me today.”

“Not at all. I understood.” Gillette hung up the phone and glanced over the desk at Cohen, who was looking back like an expectant father.

“Well,” Cohen demanded, “what happened?”

“Paul Strazzi was murdered in Central Park.”

“What?”

“That was the widow. The deal’s off to sell her stake.”

Cohen relaxed into his chair and let out a long breath. “Congratulations, pal.”

“Thanks.”

A sly grin came to Cohen’s face as he lounged in the chair. “So, how did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Kill Strazzi.”

Gillette leaned forward and began searching the Web for stories on Strazzi’s death. “Go get Stiles,” he ordered, ignoring Cohen. “Tell him I want to see him right away.”

“I feel so much for you,” Isabelle whispered, pulling back from the kiss for a moment. “It’s all happened so fast.”

“I know,” Gillette agreed.

“It scares me,” she said.

“It shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

Gillette hesitated, gazing at her long, black hair cascading down one side of her neck. “It just shouldn’t.” The phone on the end table beside the couch rang. He was tempted to ignore it, but then he saw who it was. “Yes, Miles.”

“Are you going down to SoHo?” Whitman asked. “You need to tell me now if you are. I’m going to bed.”

Gillette smiled over at Isabelle. “No, I’m staying right here. But thanks.”

“Okay. Hey, why don’t you come out here to Connecticut tomorrow for lunch? I’ve got some ideas I want to talk to you about. Ideas about the new fund. You’ve never been out here, have you?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, call me in the morning. We’ll set it up.”

“Yeah, sure.” Gillette hung up, hesitating a second before turning back to face Isabelle. “Where were we?”

“Right here,” she murmured, slipping her arms around his neck and kissing him deeply.

Stiles pressed the two buttons on either side of the Glock’s barrel, releasing the top half from the bottom so he could clean the gun. He was sitting in Gillette’s study on the first floor of the apartment, cleaning apparatus spread out in front of him on old newspapers covering the desktop.

Gillette was upstairs with Isabelle. Alone with her. And that made him extremely uncomfortable. Gillette hadn’t convinced him yet that she could be trusted.

24

“QUENTIN, I WANT YOUR ASSESSMENT of the last twenty-four hours.”

Stiles stretched and groaned. He’d fallen asleep in Gillette’s study chair a few hours ago, cleaning his gun, and his neck was sore from sleeping in an awkward position. “I’m not sure there’s much to assess.”

“Strazzi’s dead,” Gillette reminded Stiles, checking his watch. It was almost nine o’clock.

“Big deal,” Stiles muttered, getting up from the chair and sprawling onto the study’s long leather couch. “You make it sound like he was the Wicked Witch, we’re the Munchkins, and, now that he’s dead, we can all come out and play.”

Gillette took a bite of an apple he’d gotten in the kitchen on his way downstairs from the bedroom. “I think Strazzi was the one trying to kill me. I didn’t for a while, but now I think he was. I think he was responsible for Donovan’s murder, too. Donovan had to be out of the way before he could put the Dominion thing in motion, then go to Ann about her Everest stake.”

“Wouldn’t just the Dominion scandal have accomplished the same thing?” Stiles asked sleepily. “Wouldn’t Donovan have come under the hot lights the same way you are now?”

“But that wasn’t real and, if he were alive, Donovan would have been able to prove it right away,” Gillette argued. “Even if the feds had somehow been able to force him to sell the stake because, by some huge coincidence, there actually was something bad going on that Strazzi didn’t know about, Donovan would have sold it to someone else. Never to Strazzi.”

Stiles thought about it for a few moments, then nodded. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Gillette took another bite of the apple. “Did you get anything from your friends at the NYPD on Strazzi’s murder?”

“Yeah, he was definitely hit. Whoever pulled the trigger knew what they were doing, too.”

“But who would want Strazzi dead?” Gillette asked, more of himself than Stiles.

“That’s the million-dollar question.”

“I can think of a lot of people who’d
want
him dead,” Gillette said, “but nobody who’d actually pull the trigger.”

“Or
arrange
for the trigger to be pulled?”

“Not if it really came down to it.”

They were silent for a few minutes.

“Isabelle still upstairs?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah.” Gillette looked up. “By the way, did your guy get to Canada yet?”

“I’m expecting his call soon.” Stiles said, checking his watch. “So, how was your night?”

Gillette smiled. “Excellent. A lot of fun, and no sharp blades in the back. Imagine that.”

Stiles put his hands underneath his head and shut his eyes as Gillette walked out. “Yeah, imagine that.”

Pepper Billups had been working with Stiles and QS Security for three years.

Like Stiles, Billups had been Secret Service but was now enjoying the private sector. The money was better—if you were willing to work the hours—and there was more satisfaction. Even on days like this, when he’d just finished flying eight hours straight. First from New York to Calgary on a Gulfstream V, then from Calgary to Amachuck on a little King Air through some rough turbulence.

The trick to days like this was being able to sleep on any kind of equipment in any kind of weather. Before joining the Secret Service, Billups had been an Air Force pilot flying the big cargo planes—C-5s and C-130s. He’d been through his share of bad storms, especially during long flights like the ones from Delaware to Guam. During those flights, the crew would take turns at the controls, catching a few hours sleep strapped to a cot in the back with the cargo. If your turn to sleep came while you were flying through the massive thunderclouds that built up over the Pacific in the summer months, so be it. It was sleep or exhaustion, so he’d figured out how to sleep. Compared to some of those flights, a King Air and turbulence over Canada was a day in the park.

Billups descended the steps of the small prop plane in the darkness of the early morning, bundled up in his parka against the freezing cold. As he reached the snowy, windblown tarmac, he was approached by a short, wiry man sporting a ski hat and a full beard.

“Ernie Grant?” Billups asked.

“That’d be me. You must be Pepper Billups.”

A grin spread across Billups’s wide face. “How could you
possibly
tell?”

“When my contact said you were black, I told him I didn’t need any further description. We don’t get many of you guys up here. No offense,” he added.

“None taken,” Billups assured the other man, who seemed friendly enough.

“Follow me,” Grant called loudly over the wind, turning and heading for a Jeep that was barely visible, twenty yards away, in the gray light.

Billups followed Grant to the idling Jeep, slamming the door shut after he’d hopped inside. Shivering. Glad it was warm inside. “Christ,” he said, rubbing his nose. “What the hell’s going on?” It felt like someone had sprayed Novocain in his nostrils.

“The inside of your nose is frozen,” Grant explained. “Couple of seconds and it’ll thaw out. From now on, if you have to run while you’re outside, cover your nose with your arm.”

“Right.” Come to think of it, he’d seen Grant do that as he sprinted for the Jeep. “So, let me get this straight, you’re a big-game guide?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of big game do you have up here?”

Grant gunned the Jeep’s engine and peeled out toward a gap in the chain-link fence surrounding the tiny airport. “My specialty is reindeer. Guys come from everywhere for ’em.” He smirked. “I guess there’s something about blowing away Rudolph. I don’t get it, but these guys love it.”

Billups grunted. He didn’t get it, either. “You were with the Mounties, right?”

“Yeah, until about five years ago when I got into the guiding thing. There’s a lot more money in that.”

“But you trained with Quentin Stiles at some point, right?” The Jeep’s engine was loud, so they had to yell to hear each other. “At Glynco or something.” Stiles always seemed to know someone from somewhere. The guy was amazing.

“Yup.”

“Well, I appreciate you helping us out.”

“Glad to do it. First we’ll stop at the garage and look at the truck, then we’ll go over to the police station and you can see the body. Okay?”

“Sounds good.”

Ten minutes later, Grant pulled up in front of what looked like an abandoned building. It was next to a church that wasn’t in great shape either. “This it?” Billups asked skeptically.

“Yeah. Come on,” Grant called, climbing out of the Jeep and heading across the snow toward the building.

Billups covered his mouth and nose with his arm and followed. A door in front opened as they neared the building, and he hurried inside after Grant, stamping on the cement floor to get the snow off his boots. To his surprise, the inside of the garage, though messy, was warm and modernly outfitted.

“Which way, Marcel?” Grant asked a small man in greasy overalls.

Marcel gave Billups the once-over, then waved for both of them to follow him. He led them to the back of the shop and a Ford Explorer. “Some guys coming down from the oil fields found it abandoned out near Lake McKenzie. We towed it back in.”

“Where’s Lake McKenzie?” Billups asked Grant.

“About fifty miles north of town. What was wrong with it, Marcel?” Grant asked, turning toward the little man and pointing at the SUV.

Marcel shrugged. “Don’t know. The guys who found it said the battery was dead, but I haven’t looked at it yet.” He hopped in behind the steering wheel and turned the key. Nothing happened.

“Yep,” Grant said. “Battery.”

“Or the starter’s gone,” Billups observed.

Marcel lifted the hood and climbed up on the bumper to get a better look. “But why would the battery die out by Lake McKenzie when the guy was coming down from the oil fields? Why would he turn off the engine, then try to restart it? Even if he was refueling, he wouldn’t have turned the engine off for that long, certainly not long enough for the battery to die.” Marcel leaned under the hood, scanning the engine with a flashlight. “Hold this,” he said, handing Billups the light. “Right here.” He pulled Billups’s hand. “That’s it. Keep it right there.”

Billups watched the little man lean farther over the engine.

“That’s strange,” Marcel said, scratching his head with his dirty fingernails.

“What is?” Grant asked.

“Give me the flashlight.” Marcel snapped his fingers as he reached back.

Billups handed it to him.

A few moments later Marcel jumped down from the bumper.

“What was it?” Grant asked.

“Alternator plug was out.”

“So what?”

“So the truck was running off the battery the whole time,” Billups answered for Marcel. “It would have kept going for a while, but, when the juice was drained from the battery, the engine died.”

“The guy driving this thing didn’t know much about engines,” Marcel spoke up. “It’s not like it would have shut down right away. It would have been a gradual thing. The lights would have flickered before going out. It was snowing that night, so the windshield wipers would have gone slower. The engine would have had power surges. Anyone who knows even a little bit about engines would have stopped and seen that the plug had been pulled out.”

“Pulled?”
Billups asked.

Marcel nodded. “I’m pretty sure.”

“How can you tell? Maybe it just fell out.”

“I don’t think so. I plugged it back in, then tried to pull it out. It’s hard to pull out, and there were fingerprints in the grease down there.”

“You think someone caused this guy’s truck to break down?” Billups asked. “You think it was intentional?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Gillette tossed the apple core in the kitchen trash can, then climbed the stairs to the second floor of the apartment and moved down the hallway toward the master bedroom. Strazzi had to be responsible for everything. It was the only explanation Gillette could come up with that fit. He scratched his head. It still felt like he was missing something.

So he went over it again.

Strazzi had killed Donovan. Actually, based on what Faith had told him, McGuire or one of his men had probably committed the murder—at Strazzi’s direction—undoubtedly in return for Strazzi’s willingness to buy McGuire & Company and give Tom and Vince half the company for free. Strazzi had to be Tom and Vince’s backer. Then he’d put the Dominion scandal in motion to scare Ann Donovan.

Gillette reached the bedroom doorway. He hesitated, biting his lower lip. But if all that was true, why would Tom McGuire give away Stockman’s affair with Rita Jones? That made absolutely no sense. Knowing about Stockman’s affair was what had enabled Gillette to figure out Dominion, enabled him to force Stockman to tell him that Marcie was involved. And Marcie had told him what was really going on. Knowing what was really going on at Dominion might have enabled him to derail Strazzi’s ultimate objective.

Most important, there was still Strazzi’s murder to explain.

Then it hit Gillette. Why the Explorer had been found abandoned fifty miles from the nearest town, tapes still in the front seat. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the home number of Heidi Franklin, a young Everest associate he hoped had no hidden allegiances.

A few minutes after leaving Marcel’s garage, Billups and Grant pulled up in front of the town’s tiny police station, which, on rare occasions, also served as the morgue.

“Hello, Bill,” Grant called as he and Billups came through the front door.

Bill Harper was chief of police. He and a lone deputy comprised the entire force.

“Bill, this is Pepper Billups. He’s here from New York to ask a few questions and to look at the body.”

“Hello, Pepper,” Harper said gruffly, sipping from his coffee mug as he rose and came out from behind the desk.

“Where is it?” Billups asked.

“Out back,” Harper replied, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.

“Let’s go.”

Harper glanced at Grant.

“He’s all right,” Grant said. “A friend of a good friend.”

Harper grabbed his coat off a hook and led them to the back of the building, then out a creaky door into the cold. They trudged across a small field through the gloom and a foot of snow to a tiny shack. Harper pulled a set of keys from his pocket, fumbling through them for the right one as the wind whipped the snow up. Finally, Harper found the key, inserted it in the lock, and turned.

It was damn cold up here, Billups thought. And it wouldn’t get much lighter than it already was because they were so far north. The world was a dull gray, as though a volcano had erupted nearby and ash was obscuring the sun. As he followed Grant and Harper into the shack, Billups wondered what in the world possessed people to live up here. They had to be crooks or loners, running from something. Or they were socially incapable. Of course, Ernie Grant seemed to be a good guy.

Harper flicked on a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. “Right there,” he said, pointing at the body. It was lying on a piece of plywood supported by two sawhorses, and had been draped with a grimy blanket.

Billups moved slowly across the room and pulled the blanket back, grimacing as the dead man’s face came into view. The eyes and the mouth were wide open. Thanks to the cold there hadn’t been much deterioration. He didn’t like dead bodies. Not like some guys he knew, who were fascinated by them. “Where’d you find him?” Billups wanted to know.