by Stephen Frey
“NO. I’M NOT GONNA LET you to go in there without me.” Stiles stood between Gillette and the hotel room door, arms crossed defiantly over his maroon turtleneck and a sharp wool blazer.
“Quentin, it’s all right. I’m telling you.”
“I said no.”
“She’s harmless. There’s no reason to be suspicious.”
“I’m paid to be suspicious.”
“And I’m the one paying you,” Gillette reminded Stiles sternly. “You better let me go in there.”
“You hired me to do a job, Christian. To protect you. I’ll do that job as I see fit, no matter what.”
“I could let you go.”
“You mean fire me?”
“Sure.”
“Fine,” Stiles retorted.
Gillette glanced down the hall. A maid was picking up towels off a cart outside a room she was cleaning, trying hard to seem like she wasn’t listening. “Gets you mad, huh?” He’d heard an edge in Stiles’s voice, and he liked it. He wanted to see Stiles lose that signature cool.
“I don’t get mad. Getting mad gets in the way.”
“Okay. Then this won’t get you mad. You’re fired.”
“Great. I’ll alert the media. But I’m still not letting you in that room alone. Besides, Cohen already paid me for a month.”
“I want my money back.”
“No refunds. It’s in the contract.”
“You’re making that up—”
“Page seven, paragraph two.”
“Cohen would never have agreed to that.”
“Well, he did.”
Gillette gritted his teeth. “Quentin, I don’t have time for this. I want to—”
Stiles put his hand on Gillette’s shoulder. “Christian, my guy found a knife on her last night when she was outside your building.”
“It was a steak knife, for Christ’s sake.”
“So what? That could do the job.”
“No. That could be paranoia.”
“We’ve been over this. You pay me to be paranoid.”
“Quentin, listen. Isabelle wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“You told me you just met her. How would you know?”
Stiles was right. “Look, she only came to this country a few weeks ago. She’s never been to New York City. Her sister probably told her the city was dangerous and that she should have some protection on her.”
“How did you meet Isabelle?” Stiles asked.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Everything matters if I’m going to protect you. I keep telling you that. You have to buy into it if I’m going to keep you alive.”
“I think you use that line as a device.”
“A device?”
“So you can pry.”
“That’s ridiculous. I would never—”
“All right, all right,” Gillette muttered, exasperated. “I work with Isabelle’s family down in New Jersey. With her sister and brother-in-law. That’s where I was coming back from the other night when I was attacked outside Hightstown.”
“What does ‘work with’ them mean? You do business with them?”
“Not exactly.”
“What, then?”
“I’ve helped them.” Gillette suddenly realized that he’d never told anyone that, and it felt good to say it. Of course, he knew he’d exact a price someday. So it wasn’t like Jose was getting anything free.
“How exactly have you helped them?”
“Financially. I moved them out of the Bronx and bought them a house in a good school district in central Jersey.”
“Oh, I get it. They’re like your personal social project. It makes you feel better about all that money you make.” Stiles shook his head. “You’ve got that knight-in-shining-armor complex.”
Gillette glanced up. The edge in Stiles’s voice had sharpened, making him wonder about Stiles’s background. “Maybe I do,” he admitted. He’d never thought about it that way. “But so what?”
“It could bring you down.”
“No way.”
“Yeah, it could.”
Gillette checked his watch. Seven thirty. Tom McGuire was going to be at Everest in an hour to talk about buying McGuire & Company. He had to move if he was going to be on time.
“Let me go in there and check it out first,” Stiles suggested, aware of the time constraint. “If everything’s okay, you go in. I’ll stay by the door. Inside the suite, but you’ll never know I’m there.”
“You’ll scare the hell out of her.”
Stiles raised one eyebrow. “Why? Because I’m a big black guy?”
Gillette stared at Stiles for several moments, then broke into a wide grin. “Yep.”
Stiles grinned back, then stepped to the side and pointed at the door. “Knock.”
Isabelle opened the door immediately—as though she’d been waiting on the other side. She was wearing a white, terry-cloth robe that fell close to her ankles and had a script “W”—for Waldorf—on one lapel. Her hair was down and wet, presumably because she’d just stepped out of the shower. And she smelled wonderful, like a rose garden on a summer evening. He took a long look at her. She was so gorgeous.
“Buenos dias, Isabelle.”
She smiled up at him, her eyes dancing. “Hello, Christian.”
She seemed happy to see him this morning. It was all over her face. “This is Quentin Stiles.” He motioned toward Stiles. “Quentin works for me. He needs to spend a few minutes with you before I come in.” Fear flashed across Isabelle’s face, and Gillette reached for her hand to reassure her. “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “It’ll be fine.”
Stiles moved beside Gillette. “Ma’am.” He pointed down the short hallway toward the suite’s bedroom. “Please go sit on the bed,” he instructed. “I’ll be there in a minute. And you stay where you are,” he said to Gillette as he moved past.
For several minutes Stiles searched the suite. “Okay,” he called when he didn’t find anything. “You can come in.”
Gillette moved quickly down the hallway and into the bedroom. Isabelle was standing by the end of the bed.
“I’ll be at the door,” Stiles said quietly as they passed. “You need me, you yell.”
Gillette glanced at Isabelle’s slender frame. “Somehow I think I’ll be able to take care of myself.”
“Still.”
“Quentin’s very good at what he does,” he said to her when Stiles was out of sight. “But sometimes he goes a little overboard.”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. He’s just protecting you. I understand.”
“Please sit down. Was everything all right last night?”
“Wonderful,” she answered, sitting down on the end of the mattress.
After Stiles had reported the incident outside the apartment building and Gillette knew it was Isabelle they had detained, he’d instructed Stiles to put her up in the Waldorf for the night. And to tell her he’d stop by in the morning. Gillette had called Selma to tell her everything was all right, then left his apartment to play pool.
“I’ve never stayed in a place as nice as this,” she told him as he sat down beside her on the bed. “It’s incredible. They brought me these little chocolates last night before I went to sleep, and this bed is so comfortable. I’ve never slept on a mattress this soft. I feel like a princess.”
Gillette studied her face for a few minutes. Physically she was a mature, beautiful woman. But she was still a child in many ways, too.
“Why did you come to the city last night?” he asked.
“To see you. I was hoping we could have that dinner you asked me to.”
“Why didn’t you just call me?” The robe fell open as she crossed her legs at the knee, exposing her thighs. Gillette glanced at her smooth brown skin for a moment, then away, not wanting to offend her. Aware that she’d noticed his glance. “Why were you waiting outside my building?”
“I didn’t think you’d take my call,” Isabelle murmured, looking down. �
��After the way I acted the other night.”
“Why did you change your mind?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t really change my mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wanted to say ‘yes’ the other night when you were in New Jersey.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Isabelle hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“Come on,” he urged. “Tell me.”
She took a deep breath. “I hear Selma and Jose talk about you all the time. How you went to really good schools, how you’re an important person, how your father was a senator, how rich you are.”
Gillette’s dark eyebrows furrowed. “How do they know all that?” He’d made a point not to tell Jose and Selma much about himself, to stay as anonymous as possible. Maybe Stiles wasn’t so paranoid after all. “I never told them about my father or where I went to school, and certainly not how much I’m worth.”
“I think you mentioned the name of your firm to Jose one time. Selma went on the website and checked it out. Your background is on there, I think. I don’t know how she found out who your father was.”
Now that Isabelle mentioned it, he remembered telling Jose about Everest once. So the part about his background made sense. Everyone had a brief biography posted under the “Staff” section of the Everest website, and all the news clippings about his father’s fatal accident would have mentioned children. If Selma had done a general Internet search of his name, she would have found out about his father. And, so far, he’d bought two houses for them. They would assume he was rich if he could do that.
“So you’ve heard them talk about me? So what?”
“Why would you want to spend time with someone like me?” Isabelle asked directly. “When you could spend time with more interesting people. People you have more in common with.”
“I think you’re very interesting,” Gillette answered. “Now we just need to get to know each other a little. Right?”
“Why do you find me so interesting?”
“You left your country to come to a place you’d never been. That took a lot of courage. I find courage interesting.” He smiled. “And any woman who hangs around my front door packing a knife has to be, well, very interesting.”
She put her face in her hand, embarrassed. “I’m sorry about that.”
He gazed at her face. So beautiful.
“The second reason I didn’t say ‘yes’ the other night,” she spoke up, “was that I didn’t think Selma or Jose would want me to go with you. I thought they’d be angry if we went out.”
“Why?”
Isabelle shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe because if we didn’t work out they’d be afraid it would make their relationship with you bad. When I told Selma you asked me out and I said no, she got mad. Jose did, too.” She folded her hands on her bare knees. “So, here I am.”
“Okay, but I need to know why you had that knife in your pocket last night.”
She shook her head. “Pretty silly, huh? I’m sorry about that, but I’ve heard a lot of bad things about New York City, that people rob you on the street in broad daylight with guns.”
“A knife wouldn’t do much good if you’re being robbed by someone with a gun,” Gillette pointed out.
“Sí, I guess I just wanted some kind of protection. It made me feel safer to have it with me.”
“You hear that, Quentin?” Gillette called out loudly. They couldn’t see Stiles from where they were sitting. “She just felt safer having it with her.”
“Yeah, yeah,” came the response.
Gillette winked at Isabelle. “And?” he called back.
“And we’ll talk about it later,” Stiles answered gruffly.
Gillette took her hand. “Well, look, the dinner invitation is still open. You’ll probably have to go through a metal detector and be frisked before Quentin will let you within a hundred feet of me again,” he said so Stiles could hear, “but if you’re willing to deal with all that, I’d like to take you.”
Isabelle turned and put her arms around him. “I’d love it.”
He stiffened, uncomfortable with the hug. “How about tonight?” he asked, gently pulling her arms from around his neck. “You can stay in the city today. I’ll have someone come by later this morning to take you shopping. Would you like that?”
“Shopping. Oh, no, please,” Isabelle said, laughing. “I don’t think I could handle all that torture.” She looked up at him, her laugh fading. “I know this is obvious, but I’ll say it anyway. You and I have different color skins. Is that a problem for you?”
“Not at all.” He started to touch her cheek with the back of his fingers, then stopped. “Is it for you?”
“You still salty?”
Gillette looked up. He’d been jotting down notes on a small pad—making lists. It seemed like he was always making lists—and they kept getting longer and longer. “Salty?” He was headed to Everest to meet with McGuire, and Stiles was sitting beside him in the back of the Town Car. It was a different car than the one he’d ridden home in last night. Stiles was rotating vehicles constantly, having them searched meticulously before the driver opened a door or turned the key. Making it as hard as possible for anyone to plant another bomb. “What does ‘salty’ mean?”
“You know, angry.”
“About what?”
“About me searching Isabelle’s room. And her.”
“How thoroughly did you search her? Did you make her take her robe off?”
Stiles held his hands up. “Of course not.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Gillette teased.
“Hey, I’d never do something like that.”
Gillette shrugged. “I was down the hall. I couldn’t see.”
“Christian,” Stiles said, his voice rising, “I’m serious.”
“Hey, where’s that Quentin cool? I thought you never got angry.”
Stiles eased back against the seat. “I’m not angry,” he replied, his voice dropping back to normal. “It’s just that I take my job seriously.”
“You know what I think?”
Stiles glanced over. “What?”
“I think you were into seeing Isabelle again. I think you were impressed with what you saw last night and wanted her to see you in action. You like her.”
“Hey, what’s not to like?”
“I knew it.”
“Ah, you don’t know anything,” Stiles muttered. “Listen, I’ve got a couple of updates for you.”
“Oh? What?”
“First, Kyle Lefors is definitely from Louisiana. He grew up in a little town outside of Baton Rouge called McManus.”
“Right. What else?”
Stiles hesitated. “Yesterday, Paul Strazzi met with Senator Stockman in a warehouse office up in the Bronx.”
Gillette’s eyes narrowed.
“Is that important?” asked Stiles.
“Oh yeah.” Hiring Stiles was turning out to be one of the best moves he’d ever made. Even if the guy was stubborn as a mule. Maybe because of it.
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you later.” He was damn glad he’d ordered Stiles to put one of his men on Strazzi’s tail. “What about that e-mail? The one I got right before I was attacked the other night in New Jersey.”
“Not much yet,” Stiles answered. “We know it was sent from an E-coffee store. You know, the chain that offers five minutes of free Internet time with each cup. We just don’t know which of the company’s five thousand locations it came from. You have to get to their servers to figure that out. I’m trying to run it down through a couple of contacts, but I don’t know how far I’ll get. And I’m not sure it would do us much good even if I could identify the outbound location. There’d be no way to know exactly who the sender was because customers don’t pay for specific terminals.”
“Try to figure out which location it came from,” urged Gillette. “You never know. It might help.”
“Okay, I’ll stay on
it.”
“Good.” Gillette tossed the notepad into his briefcase and relaxed into the leather seat. “Tell me about your childhood, Quentin.”
Stiles looked over at Gillette. “Why?”
Gillette shrugged. “Looks like we’re going to be spending a lot of time together. I’m interested.”
“No, you’re not.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re just making conversation.”
“Quentin, I’m a busy guy. I don’t ‘just make conversation.’ ”
“What do you want to know?” asked Stiles after a few moments. He was staring ahead intently at a street vendor pushing his cart.
“Where’d you grow up?”
“About sixty blocks north of here.” Stiles relaxed as they passed the vendor without incident. “In Harlem.”
Gillette broke into a grin. “So, you probably know that pool hall where you picked me up pretty well.”
Stiles nodded. “Wasted more hours in there than I care to count.”
“Are you really that good?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Got any brothers or sisters?” Gillette asked, wishing he had time to play Stiles right now. It would be a hell of a lot of fun to take him for five grand.
“A half brother and a half sister. That’s all I know about, anyway.”
“Do you keep in touch with them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t.”
It was clear Stiles didn’t want to talk about it. “Did you go to college?”
Stiles snickered. “I didn’t even finish high school. Dropped out junior year.”
But he had excellent grammar, Gillette realized. In fact, he spoke more clearly and concisely than a lot of people Gillette knew who had paid hundreds of thousands to play in the Ivy for four years. “But how did you—”
“My grandmother,” Stiles interrupted.
“What about her?”
“She’s the reason I’m where I am today. The answer to what you were about to ask.”
“What did she do?”
“She raised me. She was my mom, my dad, and my best friend. She’s a great person. I owe her a lot.”
“Why did she have to raise you?”
Stiles was quiet for a while. “My mother was strung out most of the time,” he finally answered, his voice barely audible. “She’d be gone for weeks at a time. We had no idea where she was. Then suddenly she’d show up at the door looking like shit and spend a couple of weeks on my grandmother’s couch. Sleeping most of the time. Then she’d leave again without even saying good-bye. It was a constant cycle.
