The Chairman (32 page)

Gillette spun and raced up the steps back toward the front door, but the assassin was too quick, squeezing off another round almost instantly, sending Gillette to the steps.

The assassin raced up the stairs to get to Gillette, hurdling the moaning guard. He pointed the gun directly at Gillette, who was still trying to crawl up the stairs, and fired again. “That’s for Paul Strazzi!” he yelled, then sprinted back down the steps to a dark car that had screeched to a halt in front of the building and jumped into the backseat. Then the car squealed away.

“Jesus Christ!”
Vince yelled, tossing his cigarette out the window.
“Did you see that shit?”

“
Yeah!
What the fuck’s going on?”

“Did you hear what the guy yelled after he shot Gillette the second time?” Vince asked excitedly.

“Yeah,” the driver answered. “ ‘That’s for Paul Strazzi.’ That’s fucked up.”

Vince started to open his door to check out the scene, then heard the sound of sirens and stayed in the sedan.

Moments later, several ambulances pulled up and the EMTs raced to the fallen men. Within five minutes all three were inside the ambulances and headed to hospital.

Vince shook his head. “I can’t believe this,” he said, pulling out his cell phone and dialing Tom. “I mean, there’s no way Gillette’s alive. The guy hit him square in the back of the head with that second bullet.”

Tom answered on the second ring. “Hello.”

“Tom, it’s me,” Vince said excitedly.

“What is it?”

“You’re not going to believe this. Somebody just shot Christian Gillette.”

“What?”

“Yeah. It just happened. Right in front of his building. A couple of Stiles’s men were shot, too. Must have been an inside job because it looked like the shooter was the third guy on Gillette’s security detail.”

“Makes sense,” Tom muttered. “Stiles had him wrapped up tighter than a ball of barbed wire.”

“Get this, Tom,” Vince continued. “The guy put a second bullet into Gillette as he was lying on the steps, then shouts, ‘That’s for Paul Strazzi.’ ”

“For Strazzi? What?”

“I’m telling you, Tom, that’s what the guy yelled.”

Tom glanced out the window of his home. “But why . . .”

“They must have figured Gillette learned Strazzi was behind the Dominon thing and took matters into his own hands. That Gillette had Strazzi killed.”

Tom nodded to himself. “Yeah. I guess that’s right.” He chuckled. “The only thing that really matters is he’s dead. We’re off the hook, Vince.”

25

PITTSBURGH WAS A SEVEN-HOUR drive from New York City. They’d taken one of the standard sedans Stiles’s men used on assignment—not Gillette’s Porsche nor Stiles’s BMW. They did the speed limit. They used the blinkers. They did their best to be anonymous as they headed west on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

They’d taken turns driving and, fortunately, it had been an uneventful trip. But, by the time they’d checked into a Motel 7 on the outskirts of the city at nine last night, it had been too late to accomplish anything but have dinner.

They’d divided the night into two four-hour shifts and took turns staying awake watching television—and the door. Gillette had taken the first shift. From eleven—when Stiles had begun snoring—to three. Every so often picking up Stiles’s .40-caliber pistol that lay on the table beside his chair. Trying to get used to the feel of it in his hand.

Stiles had taken the three to seven shift—when he’d awakened Gillette. They’d left the motel at 7:30 and gotten breakfast at a Denny’s up the street. Now they were sitting in a grocery store parking lot, waiting.

“You think McGuire bought the scene in front of the apartment building?” Gillette asked, sitting in the passenger seat.

“Who knows?” Stiles answered. “But we had the hospital in on it. You were DOA,” he said, smiling. “And there were two phone calls checking up on your status. We got the numbers, but they turned out to be pay phones in Manhattan.” Stiles glanced over at Gillette. “You haven’t called or e-mailed anyone, have you?” he asked. “I know how itchy your fingers get to contact people.”

“No one,” Gillette said firmly. He let out a long breath. “Hey, she’s been in there a while.”

They’d watched a middle-aged woman park the car and go into the store thirty minutes ago. She still hadn’t come out. Quentin had decided to wait until she came back out, figuring she’d be less likely to take off without what she bought.

“Think somebody got to her in the store?” Gillette asked.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Stiles answered. “We know they’re keeping an eye on the house off and on. If this thing’s as big as you think, nothing would—”

“There she is,” Gillette interrupted, pointing at the woman coming out of the store. She was pushing a full cart toward a dark blue Chevy Caprice. “Let’s go.”

They got out of the car, checking for anyone suspicious as they headed toward the woman. As they’d planned, Stiles hung back when they neared her, watching the area while Gillette closed in.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Gillette said pleasantly. “How are you today?”

“Fine,” she answered, stopping beside her car and giving him a curious look.

“Sure is nice out today.”

“Yes, it is.”

She was being nice enough, but she was suspicious. Her hands were clasping the handle of the shopping cart tightly and her eyes were darting around. “Do you mind if we talk?” he asked.

“Talk?”

“Yes. It’s very important.”

She stared at him intently. “What is?”

Gillette picked up one of the grocery bags from the cart, one that looked heavy. He nodded toward the backseat. “Let me help you with these.”

“Oh, thank you.” She unlocked the car and opened the back door.

Gillette put the bag on the seat, then picked up another one from the cart and put it in the car. “I need to talk to you about your daughter,” he said, looking her straight in the eye, trying to convey the gravity of the situation.

“My daughter?” she asked, putting a hand to her chest.

“Yes. Your daughter Kathy.”

The woman brought her hands to her mouth at the sound of her daughter’s name. “Is she all right?” the woman asked, her voice beginning to shake.

“She’s fine,” Gillette assured her.

“Then what is it?”

Gillette glanced at Stiles, who nodded subtly. The parking lot was still clear. “I need to know where she is.”

She shook her head. “I have no idea,” she said quickly.

Too quickly. Jackpot. “Mrs. Hays, I run an investment firm in New York. We own and run companies. Up until about a week ago, Kathy worked for one of those companies. It’s called HP Brands. Does that sound familiar?”

She stared back at him blankly.

“Mrs. Hays. Please help me.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “That’s the company.”

“Your daughter resigned very suddenly last week.” He hesitated. “There was a problem.”

“A problem?”

“Turns out she was having an affair with one of my partners. He’s a bad guy, and I fired him for it, but I’m worried that he’s looking for her. There’s no telling what he’ll do when he finds her. From what we can tell, he’s obsessed with her.”

The woman looked up at Gillette for a long time, a gentle breeze blowing a few strands of her long gray hair across her face. “Kathy told me not to say anything,” she murmured.

“You have to tell me, Mrs. Hays. I’m a friend. I really am.”

Vince McGuire walked quickly down Eighth Avenue toward McGuire & Company headquarters, located in a high-rise on Fifty-seventh Street. It was nearly 10:30. He almost always got to the office late, but usually stayed until eight or nine at night. Tom was the one who got in early and left early because he lived all the way out on the island.

Vince was about to reach into his overcoat for his cell phone when he felt a pair of strong hands grab his shoulders from behind. Then a hood came down over his head, obscuring the world. Before he could react, his hands were bound tightly behind his back, and he was being hustled across the sidewalk and into a car.

The last thing Vince heard before the door slammed shut was the sound of his cell phone clattering to the sidewalk as it fell from his pocket. Then he felt the car leap ahead.

Gillette’s cell phone rang, and he pulled it from his pocket. “Hello.” They were already a hundred miles southwest of Pittsburgh on I-79. A thousand miles to go.

“Christian, this is Jose.”

“Yes?”

“We have the package.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch.” Gillette hung up abruptly, not wanting to stay on the cell phone long. “They got Vince McGuire,” he said to Stiles, who was driving.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You’re taking a big chance, Christian. Kidnapping is a serious crime.”

“You don’t think Vince McGuire is involved?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what I can prove. And right now I can’t prove anything. Besides, even if he is involved, you still kidnapped him.”

Gillette glanced out the passenger window at the rolling countryside. “Call me Chris,” he said quietly.

“Huh?”

“Call me Chris,” Gillette repeated, louder this time.

“But I thought—”

“My friends call me Chris.”

Stiles was silent for a minute. “What made that woman—”

“You and I could be friends, Quentin,” Gillette interrupted. “And I really need someone with your talents,” he added quickly, self-conscious about what he’d said. “I need personal security all the time.”

“Just keep QS on the payroll.”

Gillette shook his head. “No, I want
you
on the payroll.”

“I have a business to run, Christian. Uh, Chris. People who depend on me.”

“What do you take out of the business a year?”

Stiles shifted uncomfortably behind the wheel. “None of your business.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“What’s the big secret?” Gillette was accustomed to being direct—and having people answer his questions. Nothing important could be accomplished without straight talk. “Do you take a million out a year?”

“No.”

“Half a million?”

“Look,” Stiles said, exasperated, “I’ve mostly been putting money
into
the business. It’s growing, so it needs cash.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Gillette said, satisfied. “How about this? We hire someone to take over for you at the company. Everest invests a little bit so you don’t have to put any more cash in, and you come to be my head of security. You still own, let’s say, 80 percent of the stock. So you control it. But somebody else deals with all the headaches.”

“That’s great, but—”

“And I’ll pay you a million a year to be head of Everest security.”

“Jesus,” Stiles whispered.

“Now, aren’t you glad you kept listening?”

Stiles glanced at the interstate stretching out in front of them. “So, what made that woman tell you where her daughter was?”

Gillette smiled over at Stiles. “My eyes,” he said, pointing at his face. “Women just can’t resist them.”

Stiles laughed loudly. “You’re delusional, you know that?”

Gillette’s smile grew wider. It was the first time he’d ever heard Stiles really laugh.

The phone rang once more, then finally the voice mail message kicked in. Again. No one had seen Vince at the office all day. He hadn’t come in and he hadn’t called.

Tom McGuire checked his watch. Five o’clock. Vince did this sometimes when he was stressed. Just went away without telling anyone.

He let out a long, frustrated breath. Something told him this wasn’t one of those times.

He picked up his cell phone and tried to call Faith. But it was just like with Vince. Voice mail.

“Damn it!”

“This is it.” Stiles pointed to the left at a dented metal mailbox illuminated by the car’s high beams. It was affixed to the top of a peeling white post at the end of the first driveway they’d seen in half a mile.

“Forty-seven, Route 12,” Stiles continued. That was the address the woman gave you, right?” he asked, pointing at the black numbers on the box.

“Yup.”

It was almost one in the morning. They’d driven straight through from Pittsburgh, stopping only twice for gas and food.

Gillette swung the car onto the dirt driveway and cut the lights, his heart beginning to race. “What’s the plan?” he asked, making sure his voice didn’t give away his uneasiness.

“First,” Stiles answered, reaching beneath his seat, “you need to take this.” He pulled out another Glock 40, the same type of pistol he carried. “Here,” he said, handing the weapon to Gillette. “Do you know how to use it?”

Gillette took the gun, suddenly feeling more secure. “I thought with Glocks you basically pointed and pulled,” he said.

“You’ve got to chamber the first round,” Stiles said, reaching for the gun.

“I know.” Gillette slid the top half the gun back, then let it go. Metal on metal made a grinding noise as it snapped back into place. “Bullet chambered.”

Stiles handed him an extra fifteen-round clip. “Be careful. Will you?”

“Sure, sure.” Gillette took the extra clip and shoved it in his pocket, then looked out the window into the dark woods. This was the very southwestern corner of Mississippi. Between two tiny towns called Centreville and Gloster. Just across the border from Louisiana. “Pretty grim around here, huh?”

Stiles grinned. “You telling
me
that, white boy?”

Gillette opened the car door and climbed out, slipping the barrel of the pistol between his jeans and his belt at the small of his back. Then he closed the door softly behind him and jogged back toward the mailbox.

“Hey, where are you going?” Stiles hissed, getting out of the car, too.

Gillette heard him call but didn’t answer. He reached the mailbox in seconds, pulled it open, and reached inside. Not expecting to find anything. But there was junk mail—a few flyers and envelopes. He pulled out two pieces and headed back to the car.

“What you got?”

“Hopefully a name,” Gillette muttered, opening the door and holding one of the envelopes down into the car so he could see it in the light. It was exactly as he’d expected. Marcie hadn’t been lying. At least, not about being the one who’d known Troy Mason was in the basement with Kathy Hays at the funeral reception. It was clear to Gillette now that she really hadn’t known anything about that.

“What’s the name?” Stiles asked.

Gillette shut the car door, dousing the interior light. “Michael Lefors.”

Stiles moved around the front of the car to where Gillette was standing.
“Lefors?”

Gillette looked up. “Yeah. Michael Lefors. As in Kyle’s father.”

“You gotta to be kidding. I thought they lived in a Louisiana trailer park.”

“They did. They must have moved here. Maybe Kyle helped them after he made some bucks in New York. Anyway, it’s only about forty miles from here to where they used to live in Louisiana.”

“So Kyle’s involved.”

“Obviously,” Gillette agreed. Marcie hadn’t sent the e-mail to Kathy Hays. It had been Lefors. He’d snuck into her office to send it from her computer to frame her. “Lefors made this place available to Kathy Hays after she set up Troy Mason. So no one would find her.”

“So no one could figure out who’s really pulling the strings,” Stiles added. “I mean, whoever that is must have paid her, right? Why else would she do it? Why would she set up somebody, then quit her job?”

“Maybe they had something on her,” Gillette speculated, replaying Stiles’s words in his head.
Who’s really pulling the strings.
Whoever was backing McGuire, that was who.

“I think she did it for money,” Stiles said firmly, shaking his head. “Still, the whole thing is kind of confusing.”