by Stephen Frey
Gillette stared at her hard. “Sure. Ridiculous.”
Killing someone was the easy part. Everyone was vulnerable. Presidents, kings. It didn’t matter. Regardless of how much security there was. History had proven that anyone could be assassinated with enough planning and bribing. The hard part was leaving no traces or trail. Nothing authorities could later use to track down the assassin, then link him or her to others.
To leave no traces, the hit had to occur at a time and place of the killer’s choosing. In the middle of a remote forest next to a stream, for example. Not in a crowded dining room where waiters and busboys could easily be members of a security force.
For now, it had to be just about surveillance. Just gathering information.
Unless, out of the blue, an opportunity presented itself.
“Fourteen.”
Gillette took a sip of water. “Fourteen?” he repeated, astonished.
Isabelle nodded. “Yes. Nine sisters and five brothers.”
“Where are you in all of that?”
“I don’t understand,” she said, her thin dark brows knitting together.
Gillette picked up the bottle of Merlot sitting on the table and poured Isabelle a second glass. “Which number are you?” he tried again, glancing over at her as he finished pouring. Her diamond earrings sparkled in the dim light. Suddenly he was tempted to have a glass. “Are you the youngest? The oldest?”
“Oh, oh,” she said, finally understanding. “I am third from youngest.”
He thought about it again: the taste of a nice Merlot would be so satisfying. Especially with Isabelle sitting across from him. He’d only had that one sip of gin at lunch with Stockman, but it had been delicious. Before that sip, he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since the night of his high school senior prom when he’d lost control of his father’s Ferrari on a tight turn on Ocean Highway north of Carmel. The night he’d almost died.
“Did you leave a boyfriend back in Puerto Rico?” he asked.
She giggled, embarrassed by the question.
“Should I not have asked?”
“No, it’s okay. I did have a boyfriend. I asked him to come here with me, but he wouldn’t.”
“I’m sure that’s been hard.”
Isabelle shrugged. “There was really no choice, you know? There aren’t many good jobs in Puerto Rico. No way to really get ahead. You have to come here. But my boyfriend didn’t want to leave his friends.” Her expression turned sad. “What could I do?”
“When did you decide to come here?”
She looked up at him curiously. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wondered,” he answered, taking a bite of his food. Trying to sound as if it had been just an innocent question anyone might ask.
“About a month ago. My boyfriend and I had a fight, and I was talking to Selma on the phone about it.”
“Is she the one who invited you to come and stay with them?”
Isabelle nodded. “Yes. Of course. She said not to worry about my boyfriend. That I would meet someone nice here.” She gazed at Gillette for a moment, then looked away again.
Gillette watched her look away, then down into her lap. Suddenly he wanted to reach out and touch her soft skin. Wanted to inhale her beauty. “Isabelle, I—”
She looked up and broke into a grin.
As if he’d done something amusing. “What is it?” he asked.
She leaned over the table and lightly wiped one corner of his mouth with her finger. Then held it up so he could see. “Mashed potatoes.”
Gillette smiled slightly. “I forgot to tell you about my eating disorder.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t always get everything into my mouth.”
She laughed, wiping off her finger with her napkin. “Why aren’t you drinking a glass of wine with me?” she asked. “Is it because you have to work tomorrow? Or do you never drink?”
“I don’t drink,” Gillette answered. Now he was committed to not having any. Disappointing, but best. “I know a lot of people enjoy it, and I have no problem with that. But for me, it’s just not—” He interrupted himself, spotting a familiar figure moving through the tables. For several moments he watched her approach over Isabelle’s shoulder. As she neared them, he stood up. Dropping his napkin on the table.
Before Gillette could step into the aisle, Stiles whisked past him and moved toward the woman. At the same time a busboy put down his tray and fell in behind her.
“Can I help you?” Stiles asked smoothly, folding his arms across his broad chest. Putting himself directly between Gillette and the woman.
“Do you know who I am?” the woman snapped.
Stiles took a hard look at her, his expression morphing into one of recognition. “Sure. You’re Faith Cassidy.”
“That’s right. Now, let me past so I can speak with Christian.”
Stiles shook his head. “Can’t do it.”
“Christian and I know each other. Let me past,” she insisted.
“Sorry.”
Gillette tapped Stiles on the shoulder. “It’s all right, Quentin. You can let her past.”
“No, I can’t. Not until we check her out and make sure she isn’t carrying anything,” Stiles said firmly. He nodded at the busboy, who was standing behind her. Obviously, he was one of Stiles’s men.
“She’s clean,” the man confirmed after he’d patted her down.
Faith rolled her eyes, indignant at having to undergo the search. “What’s going on, Christian?” she demanded.
Stiles moved aside so Gillette could pass.
“There’ve been a few incidents,” Gillette explained. “We had to tighten security.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but you could have told him I’m no threat.”
“I could have,” he agreed.
“But?”
“But he’s in charge. What he says goes.”
“Oh, God,” she groaned, looking past him at Isabelle, an annoyed expression contorting her face. “You certainly get around.”
“She’s a friend,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Sure she is,” Faith said sarcastically. “I thought we were going out when I got back from L.A. Or was our night no big deal? I thought it meant something to you. It did to me.”
“I thought you were going to call,” he said, avoiding her question.
Faith hesitated. “Yeah, well.”
Gillette noticed people at the tables around them staring at her, whispering to one another and pointing. There was no privacy for a celebrity like Faith. “How did you know I was here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think you landed at LaGuardia, hopped off the plane, and just happened to decide on the Jetway to come straight to the back of the Waldorf dining room. How did you know I was here?” he repeated.
“I called your office and your assistant told me,” Faith murmured.
“My assistant went home before I left. You hadn’t called at that point. Besides, I didn’t tell her I was coming here.”
“All right,” Faith said, groaning. “I don’t know who she was. I don’t remember her name.”
“Was it Marcie Reed?”
“Where were you tonight, Troy?” Melissa asked angrily, hands on her hips. “It’s eleven o’clock.”
Mason closed the door of their penthouse apartment, removed his coat, and dropped it deliberately on a chair. Buying time. Trying to think. He’d been with Vicky for the last few hours, over at the Sheraton on Seventh Avenue, and he was exhausted. He should have used the time in the taxi on the way home to come up with an alibi, but he’d passed out as soon as he’d eased onto the backseat of the cab. The driver had been forced to shake him awake after pulling up in front of the apartment building.
“Tell me, Troy!”
Mason grimaced. “Shhhh. You’ll wake up the baby, honey,” he said, moving toward her.
“I called Apex three times,” Melissa said, ignoring him. “Everyone
I talked to said you’d left a long time ago.”
He tried to slip his arms around her, but she stepped back and turned away. Facing the sliding doors to the spacious balcony that overlooked Manhattan from forty-two stories up. “I had a business dinner.”
“I bet. Who’d you eat?”
He shook his head and let out a long, frustrated breath. Why was he so driven to have sex with other women? Melissa was beautiful. She had a lovely face and, even at thirty-seven, an incredible body. And she was completely uninhibited. She craved sex and gave him anything he wanted. So why look elsewhere? He’d never be able to answer that question. He’d been asking himself the same thing over and over again for years, and he was no closer to an answer today than he had been the first time he’d asked himself.
He slipped his arms around her. This time she didn’t move away. Just let her head fall back against his shoulder.
“Why am I not enough?” she whispered.
“You are, baby. I told you. I had dinner tonight.”
“Don’t lie to me, Troy,” Melissa pleaded, turning to face him.
“I was at Carmine’s with the CEO of this company I might buy.”
“So, I’d see that receipt on the next Visa statement.”
“I put it on the Apex corporate card I just got today.”
Melissa shook her head. “You told me the other morning they weren’t going to give you a corporate card. Remember? You were irritated because you were going to have to fill out all this paperwork to get reimbursed.”
“I told Strazzi I didn’t have time for that bullshit, so he finally gave me one.”
Melissa rolled her eyes. “Sure he did.”
“Honey, I—”
Someone rang the doorbell.
Strange, Mason thought. The doorman should have buzzed to let them know someone was coming up. “Yes?” he called.
“Pizza delivery.”
Mason looked down at Melissa. “Did you order a pizza?”
“No.”
“What’s the name on the delivery?”
“What?” came the muffled reply.
“The name,” Mason repeated.
“I don’t hear you.”
Mason cursed under his breath and moved quickly to the door, yanking it open in frustration. “What’s the damn name on the—” He stopped short, swallowing his words as he gazed at the revolver, then at the two Hispanic men in the hallway.
“Back up,” hissed the one pointing the gun at him.
Mason obeyed, putting his hands in the air without being told.
“Troy, what’s going—” Melissa saw the men, shrieked, turned, and raced toward the baby’s room.
The second man darted past Mason and caught her before she got far. Dragging her to the floor, pulling rope from his jacket, and binding her wrists tightly behind her back.
Instinctively, Mason made a move toward her.
“Take another step and I keel you, fucker,” the man with the gun warned. He quickly closed the hallway door. “Then I keel her. And I keel her real slow. Lots of pain.”
Mason froze, heart pumping madly. There was nothing he could do.
The man on top of Melissa stuffed a rag in her mouth, then pulled her roughly to her feet and pushed her onto the couch and down on her stomach. Then he bound her ankles, and, with another length of rope, pulled her ankles and wrists tightly together. “She’s going nowhere now,” the man said fiercely.
“Now him,” the one holding the gun ordered.
The second man moved behind Mason and bound his wrists tightly behind his back.
“What do you want?” Mason asked, glancing at Melissa’s terrified eyes. Flickering all around above the gag. “Money? Jewelry?”
“Shut up. Sit down there,” the man holding the gun ordered, pointing at a chair beside the couch.
Mason obeyed. “Tell me what you want,” he pleaded.
“Information.”
It was déjà vu. “What?”
“Information about companies at Everest Capital.”
A chill raced up Mason’s spine. “What companies?”
The man holding the gun pressed the barrel against Mason’s cheek. “You tell me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sí? You don’t know anything?”
“No.”
“Okay. Sure you don’t.”
The man moved to where Melissa lay on the couch, not taking his eyes from Mason’s. He smiled, pointing the barrel at her head. “What about her? You think she knows about these companies?”
“She knows nothing!” Mason shouted, standing up.
The second man moved quickly to Mason and slammed him in the stomach. He sank to his knees, wrists straining at the rope, gasping for breath.
Jose bent down very close to Melissa’s ear and pulled the gag from her mouth. “Where does he keep his files?”
“I don’t know,” she whimpered. “I swear I don’t.”
“Why did you send me that e-mail from Los Angeles?” Gillette demanded.
Faith looked at him strangely, putting a hand on her chest. “What e-mail? What are you talking about?”
They were standing in the middle of an upstairs room at the Waldorf that Stiles had hastily arranged. “The one from the coffee shop. What did you mean I needed to be careful? And who are ‘they’?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know you sent that e-mail, Faith. We have a record of you doing it.”
“You couldn’t possibly have a record of it,” she retorted. “They don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Gillette asked when she stopped short.
She said nothing.
“Faith, you have to tell me—”
“Why did you lie to me?” she demanded.
“Lie?”
“About your mother’s death.”
It was Gillette’s turn to go silent.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“I figured you would sooner or later,” he admitted. “I’m sure it wasn’t hard.”
“Why did you tell me she died that day?”
“She did for me. Maybe not physically, but in every other way. I’d had enough.”
“You pulled her out of the pool, didn’t you? You found her and you saved her life?”
Gillette stared back at Faith. “Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me about your brother and sister, either. Why did you tell me you were an only child?”
“How did you—”
“I saw them mentioned in an article about your father’s plane crash. Your mother was mentioned, too.”
Faith glared at him for several moments, then her expression softened. Finally she smiled sadly, moved close to him, and slid her arms around his neck. “Thank you for helping me,” she said softly, hugging him. “The label called this morning to tell me they were doubling my ad budget.”
Gillette had called the music company’s CEO yesterday and ordered the increase. “I told you I would.”
“A lot of people tell me they’ll help me but they don’t.” She gazed up at him. “Remember what you said to me at dinner? About trusting no one?”
He nodded.
“I trust you,” she whispered, pulling his mouth to hers.
For a moment Gillette hesitated, then he pressed his lips against hers and kissed her deeply.
Jimmy Holt stumbled through the parking lot toward his car, drunk. It had been all he could do not to tell the other energy analysts from the office about the huge new oil and gas field in Canada, all he could do, as he stood at the bar and listened to them talk sports and women, not to cut in and describe the data he’d lifted from the tapes. Increasingly difficult with each beer.
So he’d left. Afraid that a seventh beer would make him spill his guts. Despite his boss’s warning.
Holt fumbled through his pockets for his keys, his head spinning. Finally locating them. Pointing the car key at the door and pre
ssing the button. Vaguely aware of the car’s parking lights flashing and of reaching for the door. Knowing that he shouldn’t be getting behind the wheel. But he wasn’t going to leave his car here and have to come get it in the morning.
Suddenly he felt himself pitching forward. Forced to trot, then run, to keep from falling face-first. So drunk he was unaware it wasn’t the alcohol causing him to stagger ahead. Unaware that he’d been violently pushed.
Holt’s forehead slammed into the curb as he finally tumbled forward, the cement opening a gaping wound above his left eye. As blood poured onto the cement, Holt vaguely felt the barrel of the gun pressed to his temple. Then there was a flash and everything went dark.
Mason closed his eyes tightly, his heart in his throat. He was dangling over the railing of the balcony by his wrists, forty-two stories up. He tried to yell for help, but the heavy gag muffled his cries.
Then he felt himself dropping. He fell maybe only five feet and it lasted less than half a second, but now he was screaming like a baby as they hauled him back over the railing.
“Where are your files?” the Hispanic man hissed into Mason’s ear, pulling the gag down around his neck. “Don’t tell us and we’ll drop your wife over.”
“Wall safe in the bedroom,” Mason gasped. “Let me go in there. I’ll open it.”
Kathy Hays sat on the porch of the cabin, listening to the sounds of the night. She pulled her sweater tightly around herself and shivered. It wasn’t cold here in Mississippi, but it was eerie. She peered into the darkness, certain she’d seen something move among the Spanish moss draping the trees. She held her breath and looked harder. Nothing. Just a small tree moving in the breeze.
She let out a long breath. The time was going slowly.
“I’m sorry about what happened tonight,” Gillette said quietly to Isabelle as he held her.
“Don’t worry about it,” she whispered. “It’s incredible to me that you’d choose to be with me. I mean, Faith Cassidy is a superstar.”