by Stephen Frey
“I didn’t know anything.”
“Sure you did. It fits perfectly. Donovan had to be out of the way for Strazzi to be able to buy the widow’s stake. And the whole thing would have worked if Stockman had shown just a little restraint. I never would have been able to figure out what was going on if he wasn’t having an affair with the Jones woman. I never could have gotten him to talk.”
“Affair?” Marcie asked hesitantly.
“Yeah. And I have photographs.”
“Jesus,” she whispered. “Look, Christian, I didn’t know anything about Donovan being murdered. I swear. Strazzi approached me a few months ago and offered me a deal. Help him find a way to take Donovan down, and I get to run all that money myself. As far as I know, Strazzi was just being opportunistic with this Dominion thing. He just wanted the widow’s stake so he could kick you out. I don’t believe he had anything to do with Donovan’s death.”
Gillette leaned back. No way to know yet if she was lying. “I was the one who turned on your computer this afternoon, Marcie,” he said. “Not Kyle. I went through your e-mails looking for things about Dominion.” He watched her closely, but she didn’t react. Just started twirling her hair again. “I didn’t find anything. Which didn’t surprise me. I was sure you wouldn’t send anything incriminating by e-mail. There would always be a record on the server.”
“Right,” she said quietly. “I’m not stupid.”
“But I did find this,” he said, pulling the Kathy Hays e-mail from his pocket and sliding it across the table toward her. “This came from your sent items folder. What it shows is that Strazzi set Troy Mason up with this woman, Kathy Hays. Through you,” he added.
Her hand moved slowly across the polished tabletop to the paper. She opened it and gazed at the words. “I didn’t write this.”
“Come on, Marcie,” Gillette pushed angrily. “Tell me the truth.”
“I mean it. I didn’t write it.” She checked the top of the e-mail to make certain it was from her computer. “Someone got on my computer while I was out.”
“Marcie, you’re in a lot of trouble with this Dominion thing. You must know that. Like I said, if you work with me, I’ll do everything I can to help you. I know people down at 26 Federal Plaza. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best.”
“No one can prove anything,” she said defiantly.
“Admit that Strazzi set Mason up,” Gillette demanded.
“Maybe he did, but I didn’t know about it. I did not write that e-mail,” she repeated firmly.
“Kyle said he knew the woman was in the basement with Mason at the funeral reception because you told him.”
“He’s lying,” she said tersely.
“But what about this e-mail?”
“I didn’t write it!”
Gillette held up his hands. “Okay, fine.” This was going nowhere. “I want you out of here right now,” he said calmly. “I’ll call you tomorrow to tell you where we go from here.”
“Does this mean I’m fired?” she asked, rising from her chair.
“Yeah. You’re done.”
“Fine,” she said, stalking toward the door. “Don’t bother calling me.”
Gillette watched her disappear, then picked up the phone quickly and dialed the lobby. “Quentin.”
“Yeah?”
“Find Marcie and get her out of here right now. Don’t let her take anything. Tell her we’ll box up her personal crap and send it to her. Got it?”
“Yup.”
Gillette put the phone down and headed to Lefors office.
He was reading a newspaper, feet up on the desk, a bag of Fritos in his lap.
“Hey.” Lefors tossed the paper on the desk when he saw Gillette and dropped his feet to the floor. “What the hell’s going on with Marcie?”
Gillette shook his head. “Nothing.” He wasn’t going to tell Lefors anything at this point. Something told him Lefors knew a lot more about what had happened over the last week than he was letting on.
“Did you want to talk about the companies I’ll be taking over?” Lefors asked expectantly.
“We’ll do that later. Right now I need you to answer one question.”
“Okay, what?”
“How did you know Kathy Hays was in the basement with Troy Mason at the funeral reception?”
Lefors gave Gillette a strange look. “You already asked me that.”
“I’m asking again.”
“Marcie told me.”
“You sure you want to stick to that story?”
“Yes,” he answered after a few seconds.
Gillette stood in the doorway for several moments, staring at Lefors. Then he turned away and headed toward his office.
“It’s true. I agreed to sell my Everest stake to Paul Strazzi,” Ann Donovan confirmed. “I’m sorry, Christian. Both of us know what that means. Paul intends to remove you as chairman. You’re a nice young man and I’m sure that it’s a terrible disappointment but I had no choice. You’ll find something else.”
“Could I just say—”
“I had to do what I had to do,” she interrupted. “I had to protect myself. This Dominion thing was very scary to me. I lost something like $50 million. I don’t come from a wealthy family. I still worry about money. Paul’s paying me over $2 billion and most of it’s in cash. Given everything that was going on, I had to take his offer.”
“Besides Dominion, what else do you think is going on at Everest, Mrs. Donovan?” Gillette asked.
She glanced past him, admiring a painting of the estate hanging over the fireplace. “I understand that there are other problems with the Everest portfolio companies.”
“Did Paul Strazzi tell you that?”
“He and one other person.”
“Was it Senator Stockman?” The widow’s eyes raced back to Gillette’s, and he had his answer. “Did Strazzi actually show you any evidence of problems with our portfolio companies? Did he give you any specifics?”
The widow hesitated. “No.”
“Mrs. Donovan, what I’m about to tell you will come as a shock, but you have to hear it.”
“It doesn’t matter what you tell me, Christian. I’m not going to change my mind.”
“Strazzi manipulated the Dominion stock crash,” Gillette kept going. “With Stockman’s help. It was all done so you’d sell your stake at a discount. Even Strazzi couldn’t pay you what your stake is really worth, which is over four billion, according to Ben Cohen. Even Paul Strazzi doesn’t have that kind of money for one investment. He had to figure out a way to drive the price down.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“One of the people who reports to me at Everest was in on it, Mrs. Donovan. I confirmed that this afternoon.”
“No—”
“You’ve got to listen to me,” he said firmly. “You’re making a huge mistake. As soon as the market figures out what these guys did, Dominion’s stock price is going to come screaming back. You’ll regret this.”
She closed her eyes. Her head was shaking badly. “I don’t know anything about problems with loan portfolios, and, to tell you the truth, I don’t care. All I know is that the value of my Dominion investment is worth almost nothing.” She put a hand on her frail chest. “I spoke to my lawyer a little while ago, and he says there shouldn’t be any problems. Everything is on track. Monday afternoon I’ll have $2 billion in my account. Real dollars, Christian. Not a piece of paper that says I own a fund I don’t understand.”
Gillette sat in his office, just the banker’s lamp on. It was nine o’clock. He was supposed to be meeting Isabelle for a late dinner at his apartment at ten. He should have been looking forward to it, but he was distracted. He’d been so certain he could change the widow’s mind.
“Sounds like the widow is pretty set on what she’s going to do,” Cohen said.
“Yeah,” Gillette agreed softly.
“That’s too bad.”
“Yeah.”
“Wel
l, just so you know, I checked out these guys at Coyote Oil,” Cohen said. “I talked to their backers in Switzerland.”
Gillette looked up. “That fast? Lefors told me you were calling them tomorrow night. Their Monday morning.”
“Um, I didn’t want to wait.”
“So they were in the office on a weekend?”
Cohen shook his head. “No. Hansen gave me their cell phone numbers. I talked to the lead guy in Europe. We had a conference call with him and some of his subordinates a few hours ago.”
Gillette checked his watch. “Jesus Christ, what time was it over there?”
“Midnight.”
“They must really want to do this deal.”
“They do,” Cohen agreed. “Turns out they’ve got some big insurance companies from Norway and Sweden in on the deal, people who understand the oil and gas business very well.”
“Which ones?”
“I’ve got the names in my office. I’ll get them to you Monday.”
“So you’re satisfied this all checks out?” Gillette asked.
“Yeah, yeah,” Cohen said enthusiastically. “We talked to senior people in the investment arms of each of the big insurance companies, too. They’re ready to pay us what we want. The deal can be done in thirty days.”
“Lefors was on the calls, too?”
“What?”
“You said, ‘We talked to the senior people.’ ”
“I did?”
“Yeah.”
“No, Lefors wasn’t on the calls. It was just me.”
“Oh.” Gillette glanced around the office and shook his head. “It doesn’t add up, Ben. Why would Coyote overpay like that? Especially with such sophisticated backers.”
“Who cares, Christian? Let’s just get it done.”
The phone rang, distracting Gillette from a nagging thought, one that had been running through his mind ever since the Coyote Oil executives had visited. He picked up the receiver, not recognizing the number on the screen. “Hello.”
“Christian.”
“Yes?”
“It’s Miles.”
“Hi, how are you?”
“Fine. But Paul Strazzi isn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was found dead an hour ago in a remote section of Central Park. He was murdered.”
“Murdered?” Gillette asked. Cohen was studying him intently.
“Yes. Shot to death.”
“Jesus. Do the police know who did it?”
“No. They aren’t even saying if it was a robbery or some kind of hit.”
“What the hell was Strazzi doing in a remote section of Central Park?” Gillette asked.
“Jogging, probably. He was religious about it. He and I talked about it at lunch last week.”
“Well, then it can’t be a random robbery. I doubt anyone would think he was carrying much cash if he was jogging. It must have been a hit.”
“I wouldn’t rush to that conclusion,” Whitman cautioned. “Hell, it could have been a gang. Sometimes they kill people indiscriminately. What’s it called, ‘Wilding’?”
“What time was Strazzi killed?” Gillette asked.
“I don’t know.” Whitman was silent for a few moments. “So, Christian, how are you going to celebrate?”
Celebrating another man’s death. A strange thought. “I’m not going to celebrate, Miles.” Not even if he was trying to have me killed, Gillette thought to himself.
“You know what I mean,” Whitman said softly.
“I’m having a late dinner with a friend tonight.”
“Really? Where are you going?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“You know there’s this new place down in SoHo called Nom de Plume. It’s a writer and actor hangout. You’re bound to see celebrities. I know the guy who owns it. It’s next to impossible to get in there, especially on a Saturday night, but I can call him and get you a table.”
“Thank, Miles, but I—” Another line on Gillette’s phone rang. “I’ve got to take this,” he said recognizing the number.
“Let me know if you want me to get you in there.”
“Thanks.” Gillette picked up the other line. “Hello.”
“Christian.”
The voice was almost inaudible. “Yes.”
“It’s Ann Donovan.”
She must have heard the news about Strazzi, too. “Hello, Mrs. Donovan,” he said calmly.
“Did you hear?” she asked meekly.
“About?”
“Paul Strazzi.”
“Yes, I did.”
“My lawyers just called because Strazzi’s lawyers called them. The deal with me is off,” she said, her voice shaking. “I hope I didn’t offend you in any way when you were here this evening.”
Now wasn’t the time to gloat. “Of course not.” Now was the time to build a bridge. “I heard what you were saying, Mrs. Donovan. You aren’t comfortable having so much of your net worth tied up in Everest. You want to diversify, which is smart. And I think I can help if you want me to.”
“Thank you, Christian,” she said, her voice growing stronger.
“But you have to work with me.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she agreed, relief obvious in her tone. “Of course.”
“No negotiating behind my back.”
“No, no. From now on I’ll call you right away if anyone approaches me. Okay?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want.” He paused. “Good night, Mrs. Donovan. I’ll be in touch with you soon.”
“Good night, Christian. Thank you for your understanding. And, again, I hope you weren’t upset with me today.”
“Not at all. I understood.” Gillette hung up the phone and glanced over the desk at Cohen, who was looking back like an expectant father.
“Well,” Cohen demanded, “what happened?”
“Paul Strazzi was murdered in Central Park.”
“What?”
“That was the widow. The deal’s off to sell her stake.”
Cohen relaxed into his chair and let out a long breath. “Congratulations, pal.”
“Thanks.”
A sly grin came to Cohen’s face as he lounged in the chair. “So, how did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Kill Strazzi.”
Gillette leaned forward and began searching the Web for stories on Strazzi’s death. “Go get Stiles,” he ordered, ignoring Cohen. “Tell him I want to see him right away.”
“I feel so much for you,” Isabelle whispered, pulling back from the kiss for a moment. “It’s all happened so fast.”
“I know,” Gillette agreed.
“It scares me,” she said.
“It shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Gillette hesitated, gazing at her long, black hair cascading down one side of her neck. “It just shouldn’t.” The phone on the end table beside the couch rang. He was tempted to ignore it, but then he saw who it was. “Yes, Miles.”
“Are you going down to SoHo?” Whitman asked. “You need to tell me now if you are. I’m going to bed.”
Gillette smiled over at Isabelle. “No, I’m staying right here. But thanks.”
“Okay. Hey, why don’t you come out here to Connecticut tomorrow for lunch? I’ve got some ideas I want to talk to you about. Ideas about the new fund. You’ve never been out here, have you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, call me in the morning. We’ll set it up.”
“Yeah, sure.” Gillette hung up, hesitating a second before turning back to face Isabelle. “Where were we?”
“Right here,” she murmured, slipping her arms around his neck and kissing him deeply.
Stiles pressed the two buttons on either side of the Glock’s barrel, releasing the top half from the bottom so he could clean the gun. He was sitting in Gillette’s study on the first floor of the apartment, cleaning apparatus spread out in front of him on old newspapers covering the
desktop.
Gillette was upstairs with Isabelle. Alone with her. And that made him extremely uncomfortable. Gillette hadn’t convinced him yet that she could be trusted.
24
“QUENTIN, I WANT YOUR ASSESSMENT of the last twenty-four hours.”
Stiles stretched and groaned. He’d fallen asleep in Gillette’s study chair a few hours ago, cleaning his gun, and his neck was sore from sleeping in an awkward position. “I’m not sure there’s much to assess.”
“Strazzi’s dead,” Gillette reminded Stiles, checking his watch. It was almost nine o’clock.
“Big deal,” Stiles muttered, getting up from the chair and sprawling onto the study’s long leather couch. “You make it sound like he was the Wicked Witch, we’re the Munchkins, and, now that he’s dead, we can all come out and play.”
Gillette took a bite of an apple he’d gotten in the kitchen on his way downstairs from the bedroom. “I think Strazzi was the one trying to kill me. I didn’t for a while, but now I think he was. I think he was responsible for Donovan’s murder, too. Donovan had to be out of the way before he could put the Dominion thing in motion, then go to Ann about her Everest stake.”
“Wouldn’t just the Dominion scandal have accomplished the same thing?” Stiles asked sleepily. “Wouldn’t Donovan have come under the hot lights the same way you are now?”
“But that wasn’t real and, if he were alive, Donovan would have been able to prove it right away,” Gillette argued. “Even if the feds had somehow been able to force him to sell the stake because, by some huge coincidence, there actually was something bad going on that Strazzi didn’t know about, Donovan would have sold it to someone else. Never to Strazzi.”
Stiles thought about it for a few moments, then nodded. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Gillette took another bite of the apple. “Did you get anything from your friends at the NYPD on Strazzi’s murder?”
“Yeah, he was definitely hit. Whoever pulled the trigger knew what they were doing, too.”
“But who would want Strazzi dead?” Gillette asked, more of himself than Stiles.
“That’s the million-dollar question.”
“I can think of a lot of people who’d want him dead,” Gillette said, “but nobody who’d actually pull the trigger.”
