by Stephen Frey
“I—I’m with you, Mace.”
“You can’t be half-assed about it, you’ve got to be strong.”
“I will, it’s just that…”
Kohler felt his fingers curling into fists. “Just what?”
“It’s just that, well, it’s that Hewitt’s got me on tape with a woman from the country club. Nancy Grimes. I’m such an idiot, I had to submit my tape, and I knew Nancy would do it with me anytime. She’s always all over me at the club. She and my wife hate each other. If my wife saw me—”
Kohler watched McDonnell choke up, and it took everything he had not to slug the guy to snap him out of it.
“If my wife saw that tape,” McDonnell continued, “I’d lose everything. She’d hire the biggest pit bull lawyer in Manhattan, and I might as well forget about it.”
“We can’t let Samuel Hewitt shape the course of history.”
“Well he’s going to damn sure shape the course of my history if we try anything,” McDonnell retorted angrily, thinking about what it would be like to go from living in a ten-thousand-square-foot mansion with all the amenities to living in a one-bedroom condo in Jersey City with a few pieces of stick furniture. “I like being CEO of Jamison and Jamison, too, you know?”
“Hewitt’s going to assassinate Jesse Wood, for Christ sake.”
“You don’t know that. He’s never actually said that.”
“He doesn’t have to say it. Don’t be naïve.”
“Why not?” McDonnell asked, leaning back against a tombstone. “It’s easier.” He took a few nervous breaths. “Mace, I hear what you’re saying. You know I’m going to do the right thing.”
Kohler nodded approvingly. “Blanton, I’ve made a decision.”
“About what?”
“About Hewitt. About what I’m going to do.”
McDonnell rolled his eyes. “What’s my part in all this?”
Kohler’s expression hardened. “Nothing. I’ll take care of everything myself.”
“What are you going to—”
“Shh!” Kohler’s eyes had flashed to a sudden movement in the shadows.
“What is it?”
“There’s something over there,” Kohler hissed, pointing at the trees. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
THE INTRUDER moved quickly into George Bishop’s tiny apartment—it had taken only a few seconds to pick the flimsy lock—and rummaged through drawers and closets, looking for the photo of the old man and the documents Todd Harrison had mentioned sending to someone. Bishop had to be the guy Harrison was talking about. They’d been seen together several times, and Bishop had been snooping around Champagne Island—the boat registration number had led them to him.
The man searched the apartment twice—it took only a few minutes—but found nothing. Bishop had either hidden the stuff somewhere outside the apartment or it was stored electronically, he thought, standing in front of Bishop’s computer.
He took a step toward the computer but stopped when he heard noises outside, someone treading heavily up the stairs. He moved beside the door and listened. Now he heard voices, a man and a woman. Bishop had company.
He watched Bishop and the woman stumble into the apartment, falling against the kitchen counter and giggling as they groped each other, not even bothering to close the door behind them. He could have killed them so easily, but that would have caused unnecessary complications. There would be another time, he realized, slipping out the open door and moving quickly down the steps. Another place.
PATTY ROTH raced up the third-floor staircase, determined to find out what was behind that door. She’d gone up in the lighthouse and watched her husband head off for the mainland, watched the lights of the Boston Whaler until they’d disappeared on the horizon. It was strange for Don to go to town at night. She couldn’t ever remember him doing it before. But then he’d been doing a lot of strange things lately.
She pushed open the door, listening to the familiar creak of the hinges as she hurried to the steel door on the far wall. Maybe she was reading too much into it, maybe it really was as he’d explained. That the men hadn’t given him the usual week’s notice they were coming to Champagne. That he had to get supplies quickly.
She knelt down, her fingers not shaking at all this time as she started trying keys in the locks. She had plenty of time. Don wouldn’t be back for hours.
These weren’t Don’s keys she was trying this time. He’d never leave his set here when he was going into town, especially not after catching her trying to open this door. She’d found these keys completely by accident as she was cleaning the sideboard beneath the elk head. She’d pulled one of the drawers out too quickly and almost dropped it. The silverware inside had crashed to the floor and the bottom of the drawer had come up slightly, revealing a tiny compartment beneath. These keys had been in the compartment.
Patty cried out as the bottom padlock snapped open, then rose and excitedly tried the top one. A moment later it popped, too. She removed the locks and laid them on one of the boxes in the room, staring at the steel door for a few moments. Then she moved to it and pulled it back. It was heavy and it took a strong effort, but she finally got it to swing open. She took two baby steps toward the doorway and peered into the darkness. There was a narrow stairway leading down.
She glanced over her shoulder one last time—and froze, her heart suddenly in her throat, all her husband’s warnings racing back to her. In the doorway of the room stood two men she’d never seen before.
Patty went for her gun, but they were on her before she could draw.
One of them grabbed her wrist and slammed it against the wall, the other grabbed her by the neck. The gun flew from her fingers and clattered across the floor. She tried desperately to break the grip on her throat, but it was no use. He was immensely powerful. She couldn’t even kick because the second man had gathered her legs together in a paralyzing embrace.
She tried to scream, tried to beg as she beat him about the head with weakening blows, but it was no use. Nothing escaped her lips but a raspy moan.
She felt awful pressure building in her head as she searched the man’s face for emotion—hatred, lust, compassion. But there was nothing, just cold, dark eyes. They were the last things she ever saw.
IT HAD TAKEN a lot of digging for Quentin to finally find out where Carmine Torino had holed up. He’d pushed his contact inside the family to the edge, and fortunately he’d come through, whispered that Torino was in a canyon outside Las Vegas. The downside of pushing so hard was it would be a long time until he could ask the guy for another favor like this. Christian would never fully appreciate what this had taken.
Quentin had parked the rented Jeep a mile back down the canyon’s dusty, twisting road, not wanting to give Torino any warning that he was coming. There were lots of questions he and Christian needed answers to. Most important: If it wasn’t somebody inside the family who’d made Torino run—the family had put him up out here in the canyon so it couldn’t be them—who was it? And did his running have anything to do with the Dice Casino? Christian was convinced it did. Christian didn’t think it was any coincidence that Torino had dropped out of sight at the same time the prick at the transfer station had appeared. But Quentin couldn’t find out anything more about the guy, not even from inside the families. They claimed they didn’t know, and he believed them.
It was almost dark as Quentin snuck along a dilapidated fence toward the house, gun drawn. He was taking no chances. There was something very weird going on here. So he was prepared to do whatever he had to do to get answers from Torino. Even if that meant using a couple of things he’d picked up along the way in the Rangers.
The fence ended, and he crouched down by the last post. The house was still fifty yards away across open ground. He probably should have waited until it was completely dark to approach, but he needed to get back to Vegas to catch the red-eye to New York. He had to be with Christian tomorrow evening for something very important, something so i
mportant Christian wouldn’t discuss it on the phone. There couldn’t be any chance of his being delayed—Christian had said that three times on the call.
Quentin took several deep breaths, then dashed toward a rickety-looking shack beside the house. He moved to the corner of the building, then sprinted for the front of the house and burst inside, lunging behind an overturned chair and aiming his pistol at what was hanging from the rafter.
Quentin rose from his knees slowly. Carmine Torino was hanging from the rafter. Quite dead.
13
HEWITT NODDED at General Dahl. They’d had a private conversation in the kitchen before Hewitt had brought the Order into session.
“This is Mr. Kohler’s confession,” Dahl began as he always did, switching on the recording device in front of him. “As documented during meeting forty-eight of the twenty-ninth Order.”
Kohler’s eyes snapped toward the head of the table. “What?”
Hewitt motioned for Laird to get the Scotch from the sideboard. “You will confess tonight, Mr. Kohler.”
“What about him?” Kohler asked, pointing down the table. “He missed the last meeting.”
“No.”
“But I just confessed two meetings ago.”
“I wasn’t satisfied with it.” Hewitt let the words hang in the air for a few moments. “And nothing in the bylaws requires me to follow any particular sequence in terms of our confessions. In fact, the bylaws are very clear that I shouldn’t follow a sequence. That people should wonder whose number is up.”
“I understand, but—”
“Bottom line, it’s up to the master to decide who goes when, and the bylaws don’t say anything about free passes.”
Laird placed the Scotch bottle and a glass triumphantly down in front of Kohler.
“Drink,” Hewitt demanded.
Kohler hesitated. “This isn’t right.”
“Drink.”
Still Kohler didn’t pick up the bottle.
“I’ll go, Mr. Hewitt,” Fleming volunteered. “I don’t mind.”
“That’s very good of you, Mr. Fleming, but it will be Mr. Kohler.”
Finally, Kohler poured. While the other men watched, he drank shot after shot, until he nearly gagged.
“Now. Confess.”
“Give me a second,” Kohler gasped, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“Now,” Hewitt ordered. “Don’t make me—”
“Jesus,” McDonnell cut in. “Give him a break, will you?”
“What’s your problem?” Massey demanded.
“I just think we ought to give him a second to catch his breath,” McDonnell said, turning quickly in his seat, startled by Massey’s voice.
“And I think you ought to keep your mouth shut,” Massey snapped. “Mr. Hewitt is master of the Order. He decides what goes on when in these meetings.”
“Look, I’m just saying that—”
“It’s all right,” Kohler broke in. “I’m ready.”
Hewitt nodded. “Proceed.”
Kohler coughed and pressed his fist to his chest. “Last week I fantasized about a woman I saw in an airport.”
“What did she look like?” This question came from Laird.
Kohler glanced at Laird contemptuously, like answering to him was the last thing in the world he felt he should have to do. “Tall and blond with large breasts, Mr. Laird. Just like that woman you taped in the bathroom of your office at the Fed.” His voice rose through the sentence. “While she was screwing your assistant.”
“Hey, I don’t have to take that kind of—”
“Careful, Mr. Kohler,” Hewitt warned, “or tomorrow I’ll turn over your tapes for the press and your wife to see.” Kohler looked like he was going to snap but held back. “Keep going,” Hewitt ordered.
“Yeah,” Massey piped up. “What did you do to her in your fantasy?”
Hewitt smiled to himself. They were going at Kohler hard, just as he’d instructed.
“I convinced her to go to a strip club,” Kohler answered, slurring his words as the alcohol set in. “I watched her get lap dances from some of the girls.”
“Then what?” Dahl demanded.
“We had sex in one of those back rooms.”
“Anything more you want to tell us about strip clubs, Mr. Kohler?” Hewitt asked accusingly.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
The other men glanced down the table at Hewitt, then expectantly at Kohler.
Kohler swallowed hard. “Are you having me followed, Samuel?”
“Answer the question,” Hewitt ordered. “There’s no need to get upset.”
“I’m not upset, I just don’t want my entire life recorded.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Answer the question.”
Kohler gazed at Hewitt for a few moments. “All right, I admit it, I went to a strip club when I was in Atlanta last week.”
“Is that the only time you’ve been to a strip club lately?”
Kohler held his arms out. “Hey, what is this?”
“Was it just last week, or have there been other times?”
“Okay, I’ve been a few other times in the past couple of months. So what?”
“A few?”
“Look, that’s all I’m going to—”
“You’re having an affair with a stripper in Atlanta, Mr. Kohler!” Hewitt roared. “Isn’t that why you go there so often?”
“No!”
Hewitt drew himself up in his chair, giving Kohler a disdainful glare. “Remember, Mr. Kohler, perjury is more of a crime in this room than it is in a court of law. We’ve all lied in court—that’s just beating the system. But this is different. This is about honor among brothers.”
“Listen, Hewitt,” Kohler went off, “brothers or not, my personal life is my own—”
“No, it isn’t!” Hewitt thundered back. “You owe us an explanation when we demand it, that’s the oath we take. You tell us everything. We all tell each other everything.”
Kohler stared hard at Hewitt for a few moments, then slumped in his chair, suddenly out of defiance. “I’m seeing a woman in Atlanta,” he admitted. “I met her at a club.”
“And she’s—”
“And she’s a stripper,” Kohler finished. “Yes, you’re right.”
Hewitt raised one eyebrow and looked around the table victoriously. “You’ll get us a tape of you and her together. I’ll expect it at the next meeting.”
Kohler nodded, broken by the onslaught.
Hewitt eased back in his seat. “I need to tell you all why Mr. Benson isn’t here,” he said to the group, gesturing toward the empty chair. “Our brother has passed on.”
The room went silent and all eyes moved to Hewitt’s.
“God, what happened?” Laird asked. He and Benson had been initiated into the Order at about the same time.
“He was murdered in Naples, down in Florida. A robbery turned deadly, according to the police.”
Fleming shook his head. “That’s awful.”
“It is,” Hewitt agreed. “But when we lose, we shouldn’t lose the lesson. Something like this should remind us of how fleeting life can be. How everyone has to be careful in this world, especially men like us, men with a lot to lose. Apparently, Mr. Benson was going to get his car after eating at a restaurant. He was mugged outside a parking garage, then shot.”
Dahl sneered. “Probably Puerto Ricans.”
“The police don’t have any leads,” Hewitt said, shaking his head. “I spoke to one of the investigators on the case, and he told me that he doubted they’d ever solve it.”
“Maybe you could solve it,” McDonnell muttered under his breath. “You’ve probably got the whole thing on tape.”
“What did you say?” Hewitt snapped.
“Nothing.”
Hewitt gave McDonnell a long look, then cleared his throat. “There are just eight of us now.
We need another.” He hesitated. “I nominate Mr. Christian Gillette.”
Again seven pairs of eyes rose to Hewitt’s.
“I met with Mr. Gillette a few days ago,” Hewitt continued. “I like him.”
“Where did you meet with him?” Fleming asked.
“At Princeton, after that alumni function.”
Fleming nodded.
Along with Hewitt, four other members of the Order had gone to Princeton: Fleming, Massey, Laird, and Dahl. The others were Harvard graduates.
“It’s a hell of a coincidence, Samuel,” Fleming said, right on cue. “I met Gillette last week, too. He came to Black Brothers to talk to us about a deal he wants us to represent Everest Capital on.” Fleming motioned toward Hewitt. “I agree with Mr. Hewitt. Gillette’s an impressive man.”
“What kind of deal was it?” Hewitt asked.
“It involves one of Everest’s portfolio companies, a sell-side thing.”
“Oh,” Hewitt said with a wave, as though nothing could be less interesting.
Fleming’s delivery had been perfect, Hewitt thought to himself. None of the others had any idea that they were working together to get Laurel Energy at a cheap price for U.S. Oil and to get Black Brothers and him a fat fee for doing the transaction. They’d worked together like this before—and they’d do it again. Once the deal was in the bag, Fleming would send Hewitt twenty million dollars to one of the offshore accounts they’d set up. It wasn’t like the IRS was ever going to audit Hewitt—he had more dirt on the three top people there than he needed. But you never knew about the press. Sometimes they got creative.
“He’s got quite a résumé,” Fleming went on. “Good genes, too.”
Hewitt nodded. “Mr. Gillette would be a great addition to the Order.”
“Wait a minute,” Kohler complained, still obviously fighting through the alcohol, “I thought you were concerned because Gillette was meeting with Jesse Wood. I thought you were worried about him being a Wood supporter. Now you want to initiate him?”
“Mr. Gillette is meeting with Senator Wood just to cover his ass,” Hewitt answered. “Gillette runs the biggest private equity investment firm in the world. It makes sense for him to meet with a presidential candidate. I’m sure Mr. Gillette will end up meeting with several candidates, but he won’t be putting any major money in Senator Wood’s pocket after my meeting with him. I can tell you that.”
