The Chairman

by Stephen Frey

  “Tom, that’s really—”

  “Christian, I haven’t asked for many favors over the last few years,” McGuire interrupted. “Vince and I have kept our heads down and done what you’ve asked. We’ve done pretty well, too. We’ve always delivered good numbers. Please. I really need to talk to you,” McGuire urged.

  Stiles sat up slowly and stared at Gillette, able to hear McGuire pleading on the other end of the line.

  “All right,” Gillette agreed, staring back at Stiles. “What time?”

  “Two o’clock,” McGuire replied. “How about I e-mail you directions on how to get here?”

  “Fine. How long’s the drive?”

  “About an hour.”

  Gillette hesitated. “Okay.”

  “Thanks, Christian,” McGuire said graciously. “Really. Thank you very much.”

  “It’s okay, Tom. I’ll see you then.”

  “What did McGuire want?” Stiles asked when Gillette had hung up.

  “To see me again about buying the company.”

  “When does he want to see you?”

  “Today.”

  “What time?”

  “Two o’clock. At his house.”

  Stiles shook his head. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Gillette nodded. “Yeah, I am.” A setup all the way.

  Stiles’s cell phone rang. He snatched it off the coffee table, checked the number, and answered. “Hello? Hey, Pepper. What?” Stiles was silent for a few moments, listening to Billups relate what he’d found out. “Really? Yeah. Okay, call me if there’s anything else.”

  “What is it?” Gillette asked when Stiles had hung up.

  “That was Pepper Billups,” Stiles replied. “The guy I sent to Canada to poke around, as you suggested.”

  “Did he find anything?”

  “Yeah. Apparently the guy who was in charge of the seismic shoot up there for Laurel Energy was definitely murdered.”

  “Jesus.”

  “The truck he was driving was tampered with,” Stiles continued, “and the cops are pretty certain he was thrown into some lake near where the truck was found.” Stiles put the phone back down on the coffee table. “Wasn’t that the guy who was bringing the seismic tapes back for analysis?”

  Gillette nodded. “The tapes were recovered. There were some Laurel people a few hours behind the guy. They stopped when they saw his truck, got the tapes out of the front seat, looked around for him for a while, then reported him missing when they got to town.” He glanced out the window. Everything was falling into place. All he needed was one more piece of the puzzle.

  “What is it?” Stiles asked, reading Gillette’s expression.

  “It’s—” Gillette’s cell phone rang again. “Hello.”

  “Christian, it’s Ben.”

  “Hello, Ben,” Gillette said deliberately.

  “Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but these guys at Coyote Oil are really bugging me about moving forward.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, and I think we should. I mean, they’ve agreed to our price.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Can I tell them we have a deal?”

  “Yes,” Gillette agreed after a few moments.

  “Great, thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  “You okay, Christian?” Cohen asked.

  “Why?”

  “You seem distracted.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Cohen hesitated. “All right. Talk to you later.”

  “Yeah, later.” Gillette ended the call, then dialed Heidi Franklin’s number at Everest. “Heidi? Yes, hello. Look, I’m sorry to make you go into Everest on a weekend, but it was very important. Right.” He hesitated, gazing intently at Stiles as the young woman told him it wasn’t a problem because she only lived a few blocks from the offices. “Did you check it out, Heidi? Were you able to find it? Oh, that’s great. And how long does he have?” Gillette nodded. “Thirty days.” That would explain why they’d had to start the Coyote Oil process so soon.

  At a few minutes before one o’clock, Gillette moved out of the elevator and headed through the lobby toward a limousine waiting on Fifth Avenue to take him to Tom McGuire’s house on Long Island. Halfway across the lobby, one of Stiles’s men fell in beside him. Stiles was taking absolutely no chances at this point.

  After hanging up with Heidi Franklin, Gillette had told Stiles his theory about what had happened in Canada. That the tapes the Laurel Energy men had recovered from the front seat of the Explorer abandoned near Lake McKenzie on their way back from the oil fields weren’t authentic, that they had been put there to be found by whomever had tampered with the Explorer and murdered the man found in Lake McKenzie by the fisherman. These tapes told a very different story from the ones the men who had murdered the Explorer’s driver had stolen.

  Gillette believed that Laurel Energy had stumbled onto a huge field with the option properties—and the executives at Coyote Oil knew it. That they were behind the incident at Lake McKenzie. They and their backers. Which was why they were so hot to get the transaction moving, why they were willing to pay what U.S. Petroleum was willing to pay despite the fact that the tapes left in the Explorer showed that there wasn’t much of anything in the ground up there.

  Gillette had also told Stiles he was convinced that Ben Cohen was involved. He’d told Stiles how Heidi Franklin had checked the Everest Capital operating agreement and confirmed that, upon the death of the chairman, the chief operating officer would assume control of Everest for a period of thirty days. The reason it hadn’t happened after Donovan’s death was because there had been no chief operating officer at that point. Donovan had never appointed one. Thus the need for a quick chairman vote three days after Donovan’s death.

  If Gillette was out of the way, Cohen would be in control for thirty days. But that might not be enough time to get the Laurel deal with Coyote done before his term was up and someone was elected chairman. Maybe not enough time to get all the necessary approvals. Which was why they’d started the process now, before Cohen’s thirty days had begun to tick.

  The burning question was, who were ‘they’? Strazzi was dead. His wallet was gone but McGuire was still working. As was Isabelle. He could send Faith to McGuire to try to figure out who was pulling the strings, but that would put her in terrible danger. McGuire was sharp. He’d wonder why Faith had dropped out of sight for two days only to reappear asking lots of questions.

  Before leaving his apartment to come downstairs, Gillette had called the senior partner at the engineering firm in Texas that had performed the original analysis of the tapes found in the Explorer. He’d directed the partner to have the seismic tests reshot, this time under intense security. To have armed guards present while it was being done, and to have the guards bring the tapes back to the engineering firm from Canada. To keep the tapes under lock and key, with one person guarding the lock and another guarding the key. To spare no expense to make certain the same thing didn’t happen again. The partner promised to have the shoot redone within thirty days, and to make the circle of people involved much smaller this time.

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Thanks.” Gillette nodded to the doorman as he headed out of the lobby. It had warmed up overnight. At one in the afternoon, there was bright sunshine and it was more than sixty degrees. Gillette took a deep breath of fresh air as he headed down the steps, then checked warily up and down Fifth Avenue. Stiles’s man in the lobby was beside him and there were two more men by the waiting limousine.

  Vince McGuire sat in the front seat of a sedan with one of his men, watching the entrance to Gillette’s apartment building. They were both smoking, front windows rolled down in the warm weather.

  “Hey, here he comes.” Vince nudged the driver as Gillette came through the doorway and moved down the steps. “Don’t lose his limo on the way out to Tom’s house,” he warned. “You h
ear me?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  As Gillette reached the bottom step, one of the two men standing by the limousine suddenly pulled a pistol from his shoulder holster, aimed it at the other guard’s chest, and squeezed the trigger. Then, before the man next to Gillette could react, the shooter turned the gun on him and fired, putting him down with one shot, too.

  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.”