The Protégé (17 page)

McGuire glanced over at the man again. He was looking out to sea intently from behind his sunglasses, watching a ship on the horizon. “Up the beach.”

“Really? Could have sworn I saw you going into a house over on the bay side yesterday. That’s where I’m staying. On the bay side.”

McGuire shook his head. “You got the wrong guy.”

The man shrugged. “My mistake.” He smiled. “Well, take care.”

McGuire watched the man move off, wondering what the hell that had been about. Wondering if it was time for William Cooper to make another move.

IT WAS THE THIRD TIME
since Gillette had left Chatham that he’d tried Faith on both her cell phone and her private apartment line in New York. Still no answer, and no return call. She was getting the messages—she checked her phone religiously, every fifteen minutes when he was with her—she just wasn’t answering. He knew what was going on. She was trying to teach him a lesson. But he wasn’t guilty. As he sat back down at the table, Allison smiled and leaned toward him.

“Everything okay?” she asked, squeezing his arm.

Allison’s touch caused a shiver to race up his back and reminded him that it had been a month since he and Faith had made love. He looked over at her. She was wearing her hair up and looked pretty in an off-the-shoulders dress she’d changed into after they’d gotten to the hotel. “Everything’s fine. I’m going to Las Vegas next week to start that process we talked about.” She’d taken a helicopter from Manhattan down to Chatham to meet him, and he’d brought her up to speed on the casino during the flight to Pittsburgh.

“I want to go with you on that trip,” she said immediately.

“Well—”

“What do you have going on out in Las Vegas?” Jack Mitchell asked loudly. Mitchell was the CEO and controlling shareholder of Veramax. He was a big man who was nearly bald and wore large, unfashionable glasses.

Sometimes rich people did that, Gillette knew. Wore things that were out of style just to show everybody else that they didn’t have to care about fashion.

“A couple of days ago, the NFL awarded us the new Las Vegas franchise,” Gillette replied. He wasn’t going to tell Mitchell about the casino because he didn’t want other casinos in Vegas hearing about their plans yet. According to Allison, Mitchell was pretty connected, and you never knew who knew who.

Mitchell banged the table with his palm. The silverware and plates rattled, and two of the water glasses almost fell over. “Damn, that’s great. If we do a deal here, maybe I could get an invite to the first game.”

“If we do a deal here, you’ll have a standing invite to
all
the games,” Gillette assured the other man. “Tell me about Veramax’s products, will you, Jack?”

Mitchell cleared his throat and took a long swallow of Scotch. “Right now, our bread and butter is basic over-the-counter medicine. But we’ve got some hot new proprietary drugs just rarin’ to go.” A natural-born salesman, Mitchell used his hands a lot in conversation. “Dynamite stuff, but these FDA guys in Washington are dragging their heels.”

“What’s the problem?” Gillette asked. Allison hadn’t explained the FDA problem yet or how she knew of his connection to Senator Clark. He reminded himself to drill her on that after dinner. “Why are they dragging their heels?”

“Ah, it’s a long story,” Mitchell said, waving a hand in front of his face.

“We haven’t even gotten our salads yet, Jack. We’ve got plenty of time.”

Mitchell set his jaw. “It’s a damn personal thing with one of the senior people over there. A guy named Phil Rothchild. He’s from Chicago, and we had a run-in a while back. It’s stupid, but that’s how things go sometimes. Silly and stupid.”

“What happened?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

Gillette drew himself up in his chair. “Jack, if we’re going to be partners, there can’t be any secrets between us. If you expect me to go to Senator Clark on your behalf, I need to know what the deal is.”

Mitchell grimaced. “Okay. I slept with Rothchild’s daughter.”

Gillette’s eyes raced to Allison’s.

“Jack’s been divorced for five years,” she explained, “and Rothchild’s daughter was twenty-eight. Jack didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Rothchild was irritated because Amy, that’s his daughter,” Mitchell explained, “was seeing some young Wall Street punk at the time. Some guy from a well-to-do family in the Northeast. Like I’m not good enough or something,” he said with a sneer, pointing his thumbs at himself. “Like Chicago isn’t good enough. And it’s such crap because Rothchild is from here. It’s like he’s turning his back on the Midwest, like he wants to join that Ivy League set or something, and I don’t like that. Besides, I have way more money than that little prick Amy was seeing, even after my divorce.”

“I still don’t understand what caused the war.”

“Rothchild thought I wasn’t serious about Amy,” Mitchell explained, “and, well, Amy was engaged to the Wall Street kid.”

“Oh.”

“Somehow”—Mitchell shrugged and rolled his eyes as if he had no idea how it could have happened—“the kid found out about our affair and dumped her.”

“How did the kid find out?” Gillette asked.

Mitchell glanced down into his lap and grinned smugly. “I might have called him.”

“Jesus.” Gillette flashed Allison a look. “Are you still seeing Amy?”

Mitchell broke into a chuckle. “Nah, I decided that dating twenty-eight-year-olds wasn’t a good idea.”

From what Gillette could tell, Mitchell was probably at least fifty-five. “Yeah, I can understand why you’d—”

“They’re too old,” Mitchell interrupted. “My new girlfriend’s twenty-three. Hot as hell, too.”

Gillette put his elbows on the table and rubbed his face. People just couldn’t keep themselves out of trouble—especially men with money.

“There’s one more piece to the ‘war,’ as you called it,” Mitchell continued.

“I can’t wait to hear this,” Gillette muttered.

“I kept Rothchild out of the Racquet Club in New York when he applied last year,” Mitchell explained. “I’ve belonged there for almost thirty years, and I made a few calls to the membership committee. The guy never had a chance.”

The Racquet Club was one of the most exclusive athletic clubs in New York. Gillette had been a member since becoming a managing partner at Everest five years ago. “Why did you do that?”

“Because of this whole thing with his daughter. I mean, he had no right to—”

“All right, all right,” Gillette interrupted, holding up his hand. “I’ve heard enough. Look, here’s what we’re going to do.
First,
” he said emphatically, staring at Mitchell, “you’re going to write Rothchild a letter, apologizing for keeping him out of the Racquet Club.
Don’t call him,
” Gillette warned. “That would probably start World War Three. Just write him, and e-mail me a copy of what you’ve written before you send it. Then, you’re going to get Rothchild in there.”

“Aw, Jesus.”

“Jack.”

“Okay,” Mitchell agreed softly, “I’ll do it.”

“Then,” Gillette continued, “I’m going to Senator Clark to get his help. I’ll probably have to relocate one of Everest’s companies to California, for crying out loud, but leave that to me. I promise you that within two weeks the FDA will have your products on the rocket-docket approval process, or whatever they call it there.” He took a breath. “In return for my help, you’re going to sell me forty-nine percent of Veramax for half a billion dollars in cash. It’s a fair price given what you’ve gotten yourself into. Half the cash will go to you, the other half will go into the company to fund research and development of new products. I’ll get new shares and they’ll be nondilutive, meaning that if you issue more shares to other investors while I own mine, I’ll still own forty-nine percent. The last part of my deal with you is that you’ll sell me an option to buy another two percent of the company for a million dollars. I’ll only be able to execute that option if you don’t go public by the end of next year, at least at a valuation we both agree to in the stock purchase agreement. But if you don’t go public by then, I’ll execute my option and control the company. Got all that?”

Mitchell gazed at Gillette for a few moments stone-faced, then broke into a wide smile. “Get the lawyers started, my friend.” He nodded at Allison. “That little girl over there told me you were sharp. She was right.”

Gillette took several swallows of water. “So tell me about these hot new products. What do they deal with?”

“Alzheimer’s, male impotence, a day-after pill that really works. Things like that.”

“And the basic over-the-counter stuff that’s your bread and butter right now. What’s that?”

Mitchell glanced at Allison, then took a long guzzle of his Scotch. “Aspirin, nose drops, and cold medicines. Liquids and pills.”

Though he wasn’t sure why, something clicked in Gillette’s brain.

“
YOU SURE?
” Gillette asked. He was talking to Stiles on his cell phone as he waited for Allison. They’d finished dinner a few minutes ago and she was saying good-bye to Mitchell by the elevators before he went upstairs to his room. “No drugs?”

“You can never be
sure.
” Stiles had flown back to New York that afternoon on the helicopter that had brought Allison down to Maryland. “But I spoke to a couple of people who would know, and there’s no indication she’s doing that. And,” he continued, “she does have a history of allergy shots.”

“Guess I was wrong.” Gillette was sitting on a sofa in a secluded section of the hotel lobby. He spotted Allison walking toward him. “It’s amazing how you get this stuff so fast.”

“I’ll check a few more sources tomorrow,” Stiles offered, “but I think she’s clean.”

“Okay.”

“You coming back tonight?” Stiles wanted to know.

“No. In the morning.”

“Uh-huh. Well, stay out of trouble.”

Gillette glanced at two QS agents who were standing against a far wall, trying to seem inconspicuous. “I told you, it’s not like that.”

“It never is,” Stiles said, “until it is.”

Gillette groaned. “Good night, Plato.”

“Night.”

“Who was that?” Allison asked, sitting beside Gillette on the sofa as he closed his cell phone. “That pop-star girlfriend of yours?”

“No, Stiles.”

“You two trying to dig up secrets on me?”

Gillette raised one eyebrow. “Absolutely.”

“Have fun. You won’t find anything.” She pushed her hair back over her ears and relaxed onto the sofa. “How did you think it went tonight with Jack?”

“Fine. He needs to start taking self-control pills or he’s going to get himself in trouble.”

Allison waved and made a face. “He’s just a harmless old flirt from a different age.” She laughed. “Lord, he made a pass at me a few minutes ago. He does every time I see him.”

“In this age, old flirts cause multimillion-dollar lawsuits.”

“Oh, don’t worry so much.” She put up a hand before he could respond. “I know, I know. It’s what you do. Well, don’t do it tonight. Give yourself a break. By the way,” she said, her voice rising, “I may have another deal for us. A friend of Jack’s here in Pittsburgh owns a large truck-leasing company, and he may want to sell it. It could fit really well with that leasing company in Atlanta you already control. I’ll follow up tomorrow.”

Allison Wallace was young, but she was already a rainmaker. No doubt. And he wanted those talents for his own. “Would you ever consider joining Everest full time?” Gillette asked. At times, he almost got a high by being blunt. By shocking people. “Let someone else in the family take your spot on the family trust’s board?”

She smiled at him coyly. “Don’t beat around the bush, Christian. Why don’t you just ask me to marry you?”

Gillette felt his face flush, caught off guard right back. “No, I—”

“You never know,” Allison said softly, “I might be convinced to join Everest. But I’d have a few conditions.”

“Such as?”

She ran her hand up the lapel of his suit jacket, then brushed the backs of her fingers across his cheek. “I’ll let you know.”

HE WAS IN A
prison cell. On death row. Trying to make the man sitting on the chair beside him, the man wearing the white collar, understand that he hadn’t killed anyone. That he was innocent. He was pleading, the desperate words cascading from his parched mouth, but the priest wouldn’t listen. Then the warden and his deputies—a short parade of tall, faceless men—were outside the cell, ready to take him to the execution chamber. As they were leading him away, he turned to make one last pitiful appeal, and as he did, the priest became his father.

“Jesus!” Gillette hissed, rising to a sitting position on the bed and rubbing his eyes. His head was pounding from the intensity of the images.

After a few moments and several deep breaths, he dropped his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, still half-in, half-out of the dream. Finally, he checked the clock—3:15—then turned on the light and picked up his Blackberry off the night table. He needed a few minutes to shake the dream before he tried to go back to sleep.

The first new e-mail was from Faith, sent only an hour ago. It read:

Chris, I love you. Sorry I was such a jerk at your office the other night. I was tired from the flight, and the last thing I needed was to run straight into the woman I thought about strangling (kidding . . . sort of) the whole way back on the plane. I got your phone messages
——
sorry I haven’t returned them. I said I was a jerk, didn’t I? Please call me first thing in the morning (as soon as you wake up). I have to go to London tomorrow afternoon for a few days
——
should be back Sunday or Monday. More promo stuff. Ugh!! I would have called you, but I didn’t want to wake you up. I know how busy you are. I love you so much.

When Gillette had finished Faith’s e-mail, he put the Blackberry down slowly on the night table and rubbed his eyes again. As he did, he caught a whiff of Allison’s perfume, left over from when she’d squeezed his hand tight and kissed him on the cheek before heading to her room.