The Chairman - A Novel Part 45

"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. "h.e.l.lo." 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 pa.s.senger 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 you on the payroll." 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 into the business. It's growing, so it needs cash." 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.

"d.a.m.n 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 me that, white boy?" 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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?" "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. Who's really pulling the strings. Whoever was backing McGuire, that was who. 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."

"Why?"

"I thought you told me that Troy Mason went to work for Paul Strazzi at Apex after you fired him."

"Yeah, so?"

"Then Strazzi Strazzi must have paid Kathy Hays off. He wanted Mason out of Everest so he could get information on the portfolio companies, so he could scare the widow. A woman he made a widow with Tom McGuire's help. So, like you said before, Strazzi had to be McGuire's backer." Stiles paused. "But Strazzi's dead and McGuire still called you to talk about buying the company. Makes no sense." must have paid Kathy Hays off. He wanted Mason out of Everest so he could get information on the portfolio companies, so he could scare the widow. A woman he made a widow with Tom McGuire's help. So, like you said before, Strazzi had to be McGuire's backer." Stiles paused. "But Strazzi's dead and McGuire still called you to talk about buying the company. Makes no sense."

"Ben Cohen knows," Gillette said quietly. The little b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Cohen never could have been chairman-even for thirty days-without an angel. So he'd sold himself out. Playing the part of the puppet in exchange for a chance to run Everest. In exchange for selling Laurel Energy for billions less than what it was really worth. The fraudulent tapes had indicated that there was no oil in the option fields when there really was. Gillette was certain now that the new seismic tests would show vast reserves beneath the surface of the properties.

McGuire was the muscle, Cohen the brains. But who was the dark angel? Maybe it was someone else at Apex. Maybe Strazzi had been double-crossed by Stockman, and Stockman was working with someone else there. Or maybe it was Cohen and and Faraday working with another group. Faraday had uncountable connections to the insurance companies and the pension funds. Maybe he and Cohen were working together and had agreed to sell Laurel to someone for a rock-bottom price in exchange for having their own fund. Gillette glanced ahead into the gloom. The answer had to be at the other end of this driveway. Faraday working with another group. Faraday had uncountable connections to the insurance companies and the pension funds. Maybe he and Cohen were working together and had agreed to sell Laurel to someone for a rock-bottom price in exchange for having their own fund. Gillette glanced ahead into the gloom. The answer had to be at the other end of this driveway.

He motioned to Stiles. "Let's go," he urged, opening the car door.

Stiles shook his head and closed the door again. "We go on foot," he said quietly. "We don't want anyone up at the house to see us coming."

As they moved cautiously up the driveway a light rain began to fall, rustling the leaves. The thick clouds made the night very dark, and they were forced to move slowly, picking their way carefully along the rutted dirt road as they headed toward the house.

"I hope there aren't any d.a.m.n snakes lying on the road," Stiles muttered. "You know, they come out at night."

Gillette stopped abruptly and pulled the pistol from his belt. "What kind of snakes do they have down here?" he asked, pointing the gun down and ahead.

"All kinds."

"The poisonous poisonous ones, Quentin," Gillette said, starting to move forward again slowly. "What kind of poisonous snakes do they have down here?" ones, Quentin," Gillette said, starting to move forward again slowly. "What kind of poisonous snakes do they have down here?"

"Copperheads and some rattlers. But the ones you have to worry about are the cottonmouths. I've got buddies from down here who tell me stories about cottonmouths actually coming into boats after people."

"Great."

A quarter of a mile farther on they reached the house-a quaint cabin set in the middle of a clearing. Tall trees soared a hundred feet above it. The cabin was completely dark except for a porch light. There was a compact car parked in the circle in front of the raised porch.

"Now what?" Gillette asked.