The Power Broker (11 page)

Harrison winced. “I was afraid he’d do that. I wanted to ask him if he’d brought her with him when we first sat down. I was going to try to call you on your cell and warn you if you still had reception, but I figured it wouldn’t be a good thing to ask him. Figured he might get suspicious if I did.”

“Wouldn’t have mattered if you had,” Bishop said. “I lost my antenna halfway out there.”

Bishop still seemed shaken. He was already almost done with his beer. “Well, what did you find?” Harrison asked.

“Not much. Landed up by the lighthouse and hoofed it through the woods to the lodge. Tried to make sure no one saw me come ashore. Watched his wife come out of the house and go to a shed, then go back inside.” Bishop raised both eyebrows. “She was wearing a holster with a damn big gun. That made me
real
nervous.”

“But nothing suspicious.”

Bishop relaxed into the chair. “No, not really.” His face scrunched up.

“What? What is it?”

“The lodge is built kind of weird.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s big, three full stories.”

“Yeah, so?”

“And there’s lots of windows,” Bishop kept going, “like the people who built it loved sunlight or something. Except at one corner. Like that was the vampire’s wing or something.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Twenty feet in both directions from one corner of the lodge there’s no windows at all. It’s weird.”

Harrison shook his head. He’d have to see the place for himself. Hopefully Roth would call. “What about the stuff I sent you the other day? The picture of the old guy and that property ID form?”

“Don’t worry,” Bishop said confidently. “It’s safe.”

ROTH TAPPED
the desk as he listened to the phone ring at the other end of the line.

“Hello?”

“Harry?”

“Yeah.”

“Harry, it’s Don Roth.”

“Hey, Don, how you been?”

“Good, good. Listen, I need a favor.”

“Anything. Just name it.”

“I need you to run a trace on a boat registration number,” Roth explained. “The guy’s been circling the island a couple of times, but he takes off when I come out to see what he wants. Last time I used binoculars and got the number off the bow of his boat before I motored out there. I want to find out who he is.”

There was dead air at the other end. Then: “What’s the number?”

STEPHANIE CHILDRESS
gazed at the picture and smiled. She and Jesse together right after he’d won a small tennis tournament in Vermont, still on the court. Jesse had one arm around her shoulders, the other clutching the trophy, and he was kissing her cheek—like he really cared about her. He’d been the only big name in the tournament—the other stars didn’t want to hoof it to Vermont—but he was so hungry for a win on the tour at that point. It had been two years since the last championship, and people were starting to forget that he’d won the U.S. Open and Wimbledon. At least, that was how he saw it, and it was sad to see him go through that.

Stephanie glanced into the mirror, then quickly looked away. She was losing her beauty and she hated it. Time was catching up to her. It was so vain to worry about it, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. Jesse didn’t look at her the same way anymore—no one did. She felt a lump rising in her throat. He was looking at younger, prettier women now. He was forgetting how she had been with him through all these years, how loyal she had been. Soon he was going to be president and women were going to be throwing themselves at him. She’d be forgotten. Completely.

10

IT WAS JUST
past two in the morning and Christian and Allison were at an after-hours club in downtown Chicago. The place was officially closed, but there was a jazz band playing in the back room for a hundred people or so. Allison had a connection at the club—one of the managers—who’d gotten them into the private party. They didn’t know anyone else here, but it didn’t matter. Christian liked jazz, and the band was excellent.

“You okay?” Allison asked as they stood at the raised bar enjoying an unobstructed view of the stage. She was drinking a rum runner, swaying back and forth slightly to the music and the alcohol.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You seem a little depressed.”

He glanced over at her. “Depressed?”

“Okay,
distracted.
”

“I’m fine.”

Truth was, he’d been
completely
distracted, off in his own world, thinking about the SEC’s pending investigation of CST, Laurel Energy, and—what was eating at him the most—the guy at the transfer station who’d demanded the million-dollar payoff. Quentin was checking the guy out, but, so far, nothing. Quentin hadn’t picked up Carmine Torino’s trail, either. There were dead ends everywhere.

Christian had been thinking about Faith, too. He’d explained to her over and over how much time Everest took, how so many people wanted his attention. How he had to give it to a lot of them, even though he’d rather give it to her. He thought he’d gotten through to her but apparently not. If he had, she wouldn’t have sent that e-mail.

He picked up his water glass, feeling Allison’s gaze. She hadn’t been able to take him away from his problems tonight.

“Fine,” she repeated. “That’s what you always say about everything. Your left arm could be falling off and you’d say you were fine.”

Christian checked his BlackBerry one more time, hoping Faith had sent another message saying she was sorry, that she hadn’t meant the first one. But nothing. He’d tried calling her several times, but no answer.

“Watched pots never boil,” Allison said over the music. “Sounds trite but it’s true, if you ask me. What are you waiting for?”

“Nothing. I check this thing constantly. I’m addicted to it. You’ve been around me long enough to know that.”

“I’ve been around you long enough not to fall for that explanation. I can tell when you’re waiting for something. You get this expectant-father look about you, like you’ve got on your face right now.”

Christian managed a half grin. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

Uninhibited
was probably a better description. She didn’t seem to care what people thought about what she said or did, and Christian envied that. He’d tried to be like that when he was younger, but he couldn’t let go, not the way she could. Maybe it was the extraordinary wealth she’d been around all her life that made her that way, knowing down deep she could buy anything—or anyone. Maybe it was just her personality, a wild hair stuck in her genes from somewhere.

He snuck a look at her as he picked up his glass again. Tonight’s outfit wasn’t as revealing as last night’s in Vegas, but it still showed plenty. Everywhere they went, he picked up on the hungry looks of the men watching her. Looks that told him they’d do anything to get him out of the way.

Christian glanced over his shoulder. Quentin was sitting on a stool next to him, also sipping water. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Go back to the hotel and get some sleep.”

Quentin shook his head. “Nope. It’s my job to make sure you get home all right. I’ll stay as late as I have to.”

Quentin was being a chaperone. “Get one of your guys to take over.”

“It’s after two o’clock, Chris. How much longer you going to stay out?”

“As long as I want him to,” Allison answered firmly, stepping in front of Christian, then turning and tousling his dark hair. “This is my city and I get to keep him out until the break of dawn if I want to.” She smiled suggestively. “Why don’t you loosen up a little and have a drink?”

“You know me better than that.”

“Come on,” she pleaded, “just one.”

“I don’t need a drink to have fun.”

Allison finished what was left of her rum runner and signaled to the bartender that she wanted another. “Is it the Laurel Energy thing that’s got you all tensed up?” she asked as the band finished a number and the audience broke into loud applause.

“No, but you didn’t have to tell Gordon things weren’t going well with it.”

“
He
brought it up, Chris.” She took the fresh drink from the bartender. “By the way, I got a call the other day from some guy at Black Brothers Allen about Laurel. I meant to tell you that.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to know if they could help out.”

“What was his name?” Christian wondered if it was the same guy who’d called him.

“I don’t remember. I saved the message on my answering machine. I’ll forward it to you in the morning,” she said, raising her voice as the band broke into an up-tempo song.

“It
is
the morning.”

“Okay,
later
this morning.”

“Why did he call you? You aren’t working on that deal.”

“Gordon probably had something to do with it.”

“What do you mean?”

“My family’s done business with Black Brothers for a long time. They raised a lot of money for our railroad back in the day.”

Allison’s great-great-grandfather had founded the Chicago & Western Railway in the 1850s and ultimately made hundreds of millions selling it to what was now the Burlington Northern. That was how the Wallace Family had made its first fortune. After that they’d made it big in real estate, then in the cell phone explosion.

“Black Brothers underwrote bonds for us to pay for tracks, engines, cars,” Allison continued. “That’s when the relationship started. My uncle and his brother still do a lot of business with those guys. Obviously, so does Gordon.”

“It’s a pretty secretive outfit. You don’t hear much about them.”

“That’s the way they want it, I guess.”

“You know people there?” Christian asked.

She shrugged. “Eh. Why?

“Just wondering.” Maybe it was time to change horses on the Laurel deal after all. At least time to have a talk with the Black Brothers guy.

“What about the casino?” Allison wanted to know. “You never told me how it went with the Gaming Commission.”

She hadn’t asked about business last night in Vegas at all. For some reason, tonight was different. “It’s going to take a little more massaging than I thought, but it’ll be fine.”

She put her hand on his shoulder. “You deal with so much.”

“Nah.” She didn’t even know about the SEC dogging CST.

They watched for a few more minutes, then, when the band broke into another fast song, Allison took Christian’s hand. “Come on!” she urged, trying to pull him off the bar stool.

But he stayed put, grabbing the seat with his other hand.

“I want to dance.”

“No way.”

She grabbed his arm with both hands and pulled hard. “Please,” she begged.

“Nope.”

But she wasn’t going to be denied, and before Christian knew it he was on the dance floor, aware that everyone was watching them. He’d made such a production of trying to resist and she looked so damn good. Well, what the hell? If you’re going to do something, don’t do it half-assed.

When they reached the middle of the polished parquet floor, Christian squeezed Allison’s hand and spun her twice, then twirled her around the floor, dodging the other two couples skillfully. He’d learned a thing or two about doing the pretzel while he was at Princeton.

When the song finished, the room broke into loud applause and there were shouts for an encore—even the band waved for them to come back. But one dance was enough. He’d let go enough for the night.

Allison hugged him when they got back to the bar. “That was awesome,” she bubbled, breathing hard. “I never would have guessed.”

“Hey, I can move a little.”

“A
little
? I’m calling you Twinkle Toes around the office from now on.”

“You do and I’ll kill you.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You’re right, I won’t. I’ll have
Quentin
kill you. That’s his gig.”

“I’m going to the ladies’ room to freshen up,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “Just when I think I know Christian Gillette, I find out something else about him. Some little nugget hidden behind that mysterious façade.”

As Christian watched her walk away, he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to face Quentin. “What?”

“Hey, Twinkle Toes.”

“Don’t you start.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Quentin wanted to know, nodding after Allison.

“What do you mean?” But he knew exactly what Quentin was asking. “Look, I’m just having a little fun.”

“We talked about this already. She’s your business partner, Chris. No dipping the pen in the company ink.”

“Believe me, it’s innocent.”

“All evil springs from innocence.”

“Okay, Nietzsche.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “I’m trying to help.”

“I know, I know. But, my God, she’s fun, beautiful, and I get to see her on a regular basis.” Which wasn’t true of the other women he’d dated over the last ten years, including Faith. “The way I look at it, that’s a damn good start. Maybe I ought to at least get to know her a little bit more outside work.”

Quentin hesitated. “Chris, I think it’s a mistake.”

“It’ll be fine,” Christian said, checking his BlackBerry one more time.

And there it was. Another e-mail from Faith, this one telling him how wrong she’d been to send the first one. How she’d just opened her eyes in her Paris hotel room and she missed him so much.

He glanced up. Allison was coming back from the ladies’ room, staring straight at him, walking that devil-may-care walk, smiling that sly smile.

PATTY ROTH
climbed the stairs to the third floor of the lodge quickly, not bothering to look back over her shoulder in the dim light. She had to do this fast. She knew it was so risky, but her curiosity was killing her.

She’d waited until she was certain Don was asleep, lying in bed for two hours staring at the ceiling until he finally settled into the loud, rhythmic snore that had kept her awake during the first few months of their relationship. Then she’d slipped on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, snatched Don’s keys quietly off his dresser, and headed out of the bedroom.

When she reached the third floor, she trotted down the carpeted hallway on her bare feet to that door, to the one she’d finally found the courage to make it to the other day. She cringed as the door swung slowly back on its hinges and creaked loudly. The last thing she wanted to do was wake up Don.

When it was open, she reached inside and found the light switch, a smell of mildew wafting to her nostrils as the room was bathed in light. For a few moments she stared through the room at the steel door with the two latches on the far wall, then she moved across the floor and knelt down to start trying keys in the latch near the floor. Her hands shook terribly as she tried the first one.

“Goddamn it! What the hell are you doing?”

Patty spun around in terror, falling back against the door, cold and hard against her back. “Nothing, sweetheart. I—I—I’m just—” But that was all she got out.

Roth strode to where she was sprawled, grabbed the keys from her hand, tossed them back toward the hallway, clamped her wrist in his big hand, jacked her to her feet, and pushed her against the steel door, hard.

She’d never seen him like this before, never seen him so furious. Instinctively, she put her hands up and turned her head to the side.

“I told you never to come in here! Never, never, never!” he shouted, his eyes glowing. “I meant it, damn it! Don’t ever do it again!” He was breathing hard. “Or so help me.”

“SAMUEL HEWITT
is certifiable.”

They were meeting on the darkened playground of a public elementary school a few towns west of Greenwich, in a grove of trees beside the swings.

“Blanton, some of the things he’s talking about are insane,” Kohler continued. “I mean, I understand trying to make it harder to immigrate into the United States and making it harder to become a citizen once you’re here. And I don’t have a problem with that as long as you don’t make it
impossible.
It ought to be tough to get in here and stay here. Hell, this is an incredible country. But some of the other stuff he’s talking about is crazy.” He held up one hand and began to tick off the list. “Getting his buddies at the CIA to help the cartels in South America get their filth past customs. Getting his pals at the FBI to make sure the gangs in the inner cities get their hands on drugs. Funding inner city abortion clinics? Influencing state legislatures to make abortions legal until the end of the second trimester? Assassinating Jesse Wood? How far does it go, Blanton?”

McDonnell tried to break in, but there was no stopping Kohler at this point. He was on a roll.

“And I wouldn’t get so worked up about it because it seems so crazy, but . . . I mean, he might actually be able to pull it off.” Kohler’s voice became hushed. “The guy is more connected than any human being on earth.
He
might as well be president for Christ sake. Of course, then he’d have to actually listen to other people’s opinions. No, Samuel Hewitt would be happy only if he could be dictator.” Kohler shook his head. “I know he could have Wood killed, and no one would ever figure out he was behind it. And, if you want my opinion, Jesse Wood is exactly what this country needs right now. Someone who can unite us, not tear us apart.”